


Hero of War

by DejaVu22



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Roy Mustang, Friendship, Gen, Intrigue, Ishval Civil War, Parental Roy Mustang, The Flame Alchemist Catches Fire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-03-22 17:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13769430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DejaVu22/pseuds/DejaVu22
Summary: The war in Ishval is beginning to wind down. The State Alchemists sent in by Fuhrer King Bradley have done their job well. The Flame Alchemist has amassed a reputation of the bringer of death and destruction- surpassing even Solf Kimblee in pure destructive capabilities. In a few more months, the war will be declared won, and the soldiers sent home.Alone on the outskirts of a deserted battlefield, Roy Mustang is caught in an explosion that would have been lethal if not for two things: the Flame Alchemist's quick reflexes, and a couple of doctors named Rockbell.Hiding from the military, he returns with them to Resembool, where he meets two young boys and their mother; good friends of the Rockbells and new family for the disgraced alchemist. But the military isn't done with him yet, and the homunculi still need their sacrifices.Or... Roy gets injured and ends up in the Elric household while Ed and Al are still young. The combination is rather explosive.





	1. To be a doctor...

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restitution](https://archiveofourown.org/works/99836) by [randomcheeses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomcheeses/pseuds/randomcheeses). 



> Hi guys! New fic here! I honestly don't know where this monstrosity came from and only have the vaguest idea of where it's going, so this should be fun. It starts during the Ishavalan Civil War, and works off the Brotherhood storyline where the Rockbells were not killed by Mustang but instead by Scar. However, that's where it deviates, as the Rockbells are not killed. You'll see why. This was inspired by the idea of Mustang meeting Trisha Elric and being something of a big brother/parent to Ed and Al (I'm a fan of parental Roy Mustang). It grew to something bigger. Enjoy!

A doctor had to remain detached from the pain around them. If they allowed themselves to devolve into empathy, they would become useless to their patients. This truth remained during any scenario, from a sterilized surgical theater in Central’s best hospital to a small automail shop in the country. It applied, even, to a sandy house on the edge of a warzone, filled to the brim with dead and dying innocents of war.

Urey Rockbell reminded himself of this as he dry heaved against said sandy house, trying to get a grip on himself while the house was relatively quiet, before the next wave of terrified people were shoved into their triage center. He reminded himself that he couldn’t save everyone, that some injuries were just too much to survive. He was doing what he could. The unfortunate survivors missing one or more limbs wouldn’t be in pain forever, just as long as he did this right.

And he didn’t have time to break down like this, they NEEDED him!

He pulled away from his support against the house only long enough for his stomach to once again rebel and send him bending over once again, trying to expel contents that hadn’t been there since this morning.

A doctor needed to remain detached from everything so that they could do their job, but this in itself was an impossibility. A doctor was a human being. And only a human being that cared would ever find themselves in the position of a doctor; a doctor that made a difference, anyway. Urey had known this since he first started in the profession, his mother reminding him in that wise way she had exactly what happens when a doctor just isn’t enough.

Still. It was a hard pill to swallow.

“Urey!” A familiar, and welcome, voice called from inside the house. “Incoming wounded!” He allowed himself to relish in the sound, her professional tone cooling his shattered nerves. God, he loved that woman.

There were noises of bustle from inside, the desperate preparation for wounds that could never be prepared for. The assistants were muttering amongst themselves in both Ishvalan and Amestrian as they struggled to get the equipment together, attempting to anticipate who they may receive. Less injured patients were moved out of the way, up into   
the second story or the nearby house.

Alright. He had a job to do. He needed to get to it.

Upon entering the house, the efficiency of the assistants quickly became apparent. Where before every cot and several spaces on the floor had been occupied, the room was nearly empty. The previously used spaces had been quickly wiped down with antiseptic and the bed sheets changed. Tools were cleaned and organized beside the beds. The remaining patients too critical to move were either sleeping or nearly deathly quiet, hidden by what little privacy they could provide with sheets hanging from the ceiling around their beds.

Urey exchanged a glance with his wife, her professional calm only slightly marred by the concern in her eyes. He forced a weak smile to assure her that, for now at least, he was alright. They had both had their fair share of breakdowns over the course of the war, and tonight they would do what they could to combat the despair that accumulated over the day.

But right now, they had a job. Sarah acknowledged his smile with one of her own and a professional nod, then turned to their newest arrival being lugged through the door by two familiar Ishvalans.

Knowing that worse injuries were sure to come soon enough, judging by the explosions that had rocked the very earth about an thirty minutes ago, Urey helped filter the incoming wounded to other medical assistants. The man with a gunshot wound to the collarbone went to Paulik; he had the most experience with shattered bones from projectiles. A woman with a leg crushed from fallen debris was handed off to Jordans.

Around him, people were moving frantically, claiming their own patients and working to triage them as quickly as possible. Experience had taught them the importance of dealing with each injury as quickly, if not thoroughly, as possible. The amount of patients would soon outnumber the medics. Then decisions would have to be made. They would all work to put the decisions off for as long as possible.

“Dr. Rockbell!” Called from the doorway. Urey turned on his heels, finding an Ishvalan and young Amestrian volunteer propping up an individual between the two of them. Paul, the kid that had followed them from Resemboul to help, was grappling awkwardly with his burden, holding the figure by his charred waistband and the opposite shoulder rather than looping his charge’s arm around his neck as his Ishvalan counterpoint had.

The doctor’s keen eyes quickly picked out the man’s blackened hand hanging limply behind Paul, his entire side deformed and entire parts still smoking. “Critical burn victim.” The Ishvalan told Dr. Rockbell in a thick accent as they lugged the man to the nearest bed, lifting him onto the bed with sheer force.

Urey strode to meet them, filching bandages and antibiotics from a currently unused table as he went. He called over his shoulder for Sarah, knowing she would bring more bandages when she saw the extent of this man’s injuries.

“Where’d you find him?” He asked Paul, looking over the man with a critical eye before he even touched him. Some patches of his black hair had burnt off, but the majority of his face had been at least somewhat protected. The remains of a blue uniform clung to the man’s skin. His right side was noticeably more burnt than his left, as if he had turned to shield himself. “Roll him onto his less injured side,” he instructed. They carefully propped him up so the worst of the burns were easily accessible.

“He was under the rubble of a crumbled building, Dr.,” Paul told him. “We think it was the epicenter of the blast.”

“The epicenter?” Urey repeated incredulously, gingerly touching the man’s neck to find a pulse and hovering the other hand above his mouth to detect the small wisps of breath.   
“He should be charred to a burnt crisp if he was that close.”

Paul just shrugged helplessly. Sarah slid into place at Urey’s side and the doctor put his disbelief on hold. “Alright, we’ve got this. Keep up the good work you two.”

Sarah slid a medical mask in Urey’s hand, doing her own observation of the man. He gratefully slid it into place, blocking out a little of the scent of burnt flesh. “We’re gonna have to work fast,” she said. “We don’t have any sedatives left. Langely went to get more.”

“Burns are highly susceptible to infection,” Urey said unnecessarily, eyes still lingering on the young man’s face. He couldn’t be more than twenty. “And with such a wide area…”

“We’ll worry about that later,” Sarah interrupted, reaching across the man for the antiseptic and quickly coating the wounds with the paste. “For now, let’s just make sure he survives long enough to worry about infection.”

Urey nodded and turned his attention to the man’s shoulder, a scalpel in hand, and began debriding the disinfected skin. His attention flicked to the man’s face at regular intervals to make sure the man was still breathing before turning immediately back to the horrible wounds. The burns rippled across the man’s skin, the severity decreasing from right to left across the body. The exception was the man’s left forearm, which showed signs of protecting his face from the blast, but not as serious as his right hand.

Sarah had finished disinfecting the worst of the burns and taken up a pair of scissors to clear the man’s torso of the dead skin. Urey finished what he could of the shoulder area and sent another appraising glance at the man’s face before moving on further down the arm.

He was stunned to see the man’s eyes cracked open and blinking blearily at him. “Sarah, he’s awake,” Urey mumbled to her, not wanting to startle the man. She nodded without looking up, and he abandoned the scalpel on the table in favor of leaning in front of the man to block his view of her. The last thing a trauma patient needed was to see the extent of their trauma. Especially when his stillness was key to a quick treatment.

“Hey,” Urey said in a gentle voice, waiting for the man’s wandering eyes to meet with his own. They were dark, nearly obsidian, and sunken into his Xingese features. “My name’s Urey Rockbell. I’m a doctor. I know you’re in pain right now, and probably really confused, but I need you to stay as still as possible. Can you do that for me?”

The man’s eyes had grown sharper and more aware as Urey spoke, his face tighter as the pain made its way past his mental confusion. As the sensations grew, he began to squirm, breaking eye contact with Urey and rolling his head as his limbs jerked spastically. Sarah grunted from behind Urey as the scalpel slipped across the writhing form.

Urey laid a restraining hand on the man’s forehead, getting close enough that the man had no choice but to keep eye contact. His warnings clearly hadn’t registered the first time, and he really needed the man to understand what he was saying. At least until the sedatives arrived.

“You need to stay still. You’re really injured. Now, we’re going to help, but we can’t do that if you’re fighting us.” The man’s eyes strayed to the side again, trying to catch a glimpse behind Urey at his surroundings. Urey tapped the man’s cheek impatiently. “Hey. Do you understand me?”

The man’s chapped lips opened, but only a low croaking groan came out. His legs continued to scramble against the table, his back trying to arch but not quite strong enough to get past the pain, his left hand scratching at the table.

“Urey?” Sarah prompted from behind him, currently laying on the man’s thigh to prevent most of his movement as she finished the last of his stomach.  
“I’m trying,” he told her before turning once again to the man.

He cleared his voice, thought of the last time he had heard a commander yell at a subordinate and did his best impression with the hope he didn’t sound like a complete idiot. “Soldier. Listen up.” The man’s eyes locked on Urey once again, this time with a focus that was honestly a bit unnerving. “You have to stay still. Stop moving.”

It was a bit sickening when the soldier did exactly that, restraining himself despite the pain that had to be absolute agony. The conditioning this man had to have gone through to follow orders like that…

Urey’s expression softened. “What’s your name, soldier?”

The man blinked at him. Sarah cursed under her breath at some unknown issue and he tried to look around Urey again. “Hey, no. Come on, look at me.” The man once again focused on Urey. “What’s your name?” Urey repeated.

His adam’s apple bobbed as he cleared his throat several times. Even after the repeated attempts, his voice still sounded like gravel. “Roy.”

“Roy,” Urey repeated. The newly dubbed Roy nodded, grimacing at the movement. “Alright, Roy. I’m Urey Rockbell. Behind me is my wife Sarah. We’re doctors. You were in an explosion and got a few burns all along your right side.”

Urey figured this soldier would appreciate knowing. He looked like someone who prided himself on having control over a situation. “We’re fixing you up now. I know you’re in pain, but you have to stay calm and still. The sooner this is done, the sooner you’ll feel better, alright?”

Roy gave another infinitesimal nod before squeezing his eyes shut and forcing his head against the sheets, a small whimper escaping but no other movement twitching along his limbs. Urey gave the man a comforting stroke through the hair before once again grabbing the scalpel and returning to the marred flesh.

Urey was applying more antibiotics on Roy’s shoulder when another desperate whimper shook Roy’s entire frame. Well, shook it more than it had been already. Despite the injured soldier’s best efforts, his body had broken out into shivers that had been slowly growing in intensity to full body shudders.

Continuous pain was never easy for the human body to handle.

Urey tried to ignore Roy’s pained whimper, knowing there was nothing he could do to ease his pain.

“Urey,” his wife called softly. She nodded a pained look towards Roy’s head, where his entire face was scrunched up in barely repressed agony. Involuntary tears worked their way down his burnt cheeks, no doubt leaving trails of stinging nettle as they went.

Roy’s left hand was once again scratching at the table beneath him, searching for purchase on something beyond the pain. He look like he wanted to reach for something but couldn’t quite find the energy to move beyond stuttering twitches.

“Roy?” Urey called softly. “You still with me?”

His only reply was another pained groan.

Reluctantly, the doctor left his post at the soldier’s shoulder and stooped beside his head. He ran careful fingers through his hair again. “Roy, can you open your eyes for me?”  
Urey was incredibly grateful that there weren’t many people in the room any longer. The rush of injured and medics had long since drifted away; the skirmish not causing even half of the casualties they had feared. Otherwise, the only comfort Roy would receive would be a euthanizing bullet.

The soldier’s eyes peeled open. The process looked so exhausting that even Urey felt drained of energy. Dull eyes focused on the doctor, sending a jolt of shivers down his spine. He had seen that look on too many men to delude himself of its meaning.

“Hey, you’re not giving up, are you?”

He was giving up.

“You need to stay strong, okay?”

Cracked lips parted, and a deathly tired voice barely reached Urey’s ears. “I can’t feel my hand.” It lacked any of the emotions that should accompany such a declaration. No fear or pain or stress; just a vague sounding disappointment.

Urey twisted to glance at the mentioned hand. Sarah was currently doing what she could to clean it up, but the truth was that it was far beyond their abilities to save. They had debated amputating it; mangled as it was, he would definitely lose a few fingers not matter what, and the risk of infection was dangerously high.

But if he could get decent medical care soon, in a sterilized surgical facility, he might be able to keep the limb with only a few impairments. Automail was a lifelong pain to deal with, and something they hoped to save him from.

“Do you feel any sensation at all?” Urey asked. Sarah sent a sharp glance his way at the indelicacy of the question, which he fully agreed with. But his bedside manner had suffered in recent months and he knew it was something they needed to know.

Roy shook his head infinitesimally.

That complicated matters.

“Roy. This isn’t the end. At the worst, your hand will be a bit more metallic than it once was. Your life is still yours as long as you don’t give up on it.”

“Hurts,” was all he managed.

“I know it does. But you can push through it. You’ve done so well so far.”

Urey hesitated. “And the sedatives are on their way here. If you can just last that long, we’ll be that much closer to fixing this.”

The sedatives still hadn’t arrived and Urey was becoming really concerned for the man they sent out to get them.

Worst of all was that the patient that needed them most was losing the last of his mental fortitude.

“Burn wounds… easily infected,” the dark-haired man muttered. “Won’t last long anyway.”

Urey cursed his sharp intellect. “You won’t know if you don’t fight through it. Don’t you have something worth fighting for?”

Roy blinked several times, seemingly surprised by the question. A contemplative look took over his features, still tightened with pain but absent from reality. Urey let him think for a few minutes, but found himself unwilling to let the degrading man drift in his own possibly morbid thoughts.

“Well?”

Roy closed his eyes, a defeated look once again taking control. A heavy sigh escaped from his cracked lips, sending his body into a new wave of pained shivers. Urey put a hand on   
Roy’s less burned elbow, planning to shake some sense into him if he had to.

Roy’s eyes opened before he hand the chance. “Hawkeye would shoot me if I died,” Roy said. Urey felt the panic drain out of his muscles, his searching eyes finding something new in Roy’s expression.

There was fire in his eyes.

Urey gave a short laugh. “I assume ‘Hawkeye’ is a friend of yours?”

Roy’s lips quirked into the faintest of smirks in reply.

“Well, do you have any other friends that would threaten your death if you died?”

“Probably-” he was interrupted with a pained groan- “Maes, too.” Something between a fond smile and a grimace shaped his mouth at the mention of Maes.

“Are your friends aware that death generally exempts people from threats of death?” Urey asked wryly, unwilling to stop the conversation when he had just found a spark in the man.

The comment proved to be a misstep on his part when Roy tried to laugh and instead broke into a coughing fit that left him helplessly moaning for several unbearably long minutes. Urey muttered soothing words to the suffering man, continuing to stroke comfortingly through his hair, until he once again worked up the will to open his eyes.

“I don’t think they would really care,” Roy answered at length, wry amusement clear whenever he spoke of them.

A sad smile crept up on Urey’s lips. “They sound like good friends.”

“Yeah,” Roy sighed. “They are.”


	2. Kindle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The full extent of Roy's injuries become apparent.

It was never easy listing off injuries to a patient. It often felt like, no matter how delicate he was trying to be, he was merely reciting a grocery list and not the debilitating results of a traumatic experience.

They would start off with this hopeful expression (or hopeless, depending on the extent of the injury- the hopeless just waited with a dejected certainty, already dead before the doctor even said a word). Some would attempt to restrain the desperate glimmer, attempt to be realistic about it all.

There’s no way to be realistic about the knowledge that you may never use a hand again. You can pretend that you know what such a thought entails, but, until you live it, it is a mere nightmare. It is still an idea that can be combated by hope.

Hope was a double edged sword, and watching it be doused underneath stifled tears was a horrible thing to witness.

Roy was one of the ‘realistic’ ones. His face was set in a determined scowl and his eyes, so far, were utterly dry. He paid rapt attention, and tried to look as dignified as he could laid out on his side and conversing at a perpendicular angle. His voice, what little he spoke, was deep and soothing, never betraying his calm. “I’m no stranger to burn wounds,” he had said with an ironic laugh.

But his false composure was given away by the fixed lock Roy kept on his doctor -his eyes never straying far enough to evaluate the damage for himself.

This was going to be rough, Urey knew. Tough guys like young soldiers always approached every problem as if it was fixable if they just put enough effort into it. They always had trouble accepting the idea that their bodies could betray them, that sheer will wouldn’t bring back what they had lost. Hopefully, that determination would stick around long enough for Roy to get past the worst of this.

They all start off with a hopeful glint or a determined glare.

_ “Two broken ribs- most likely from the building’s collapse…” _

A flicker of emotion, perhaps even relief, as they think, ‘well that isn’t so bad’.

_ “A mild concussion, along with partial deafness in the right ear. The deafness is either from the explosion or the rubble, but either way it’s temporary.” _

Then the fear begins to grow in their eyes.

_ “The burns are, obviously, the most serious injury.” _

Their hands curl into white-knuckled fists, if they still have hands with which to do so. Roy struggles with it only for a moment before forcing his bandaged fingers to relax.

_ “The right side is much more severely burned than the left. Third and fourth degree burns along the shoulder and torso.” _

Their jaws clench.

_ “It will require grafted skin in order to heal somewhat properly.” _

Their jaws clench so tightly it seemed their tendons would snap.

_ “Recovery will take years of physical therapy, otherwise the skin will shrivel and the majority of the range of motion will be lost.” _

Roy’s teeth were grinding into a fine powder. The dogged refusal to show emotion was still in control.

_ “Second degree burns around the edges of the third degree, as well as the left hand and forearm. With care and treatment, those will heal relatively well. _

_ “The right hand and forearm are a different story.’ _

His horrified eyes tracked down from his fixed glare at Urey to the limb laying limply at his side. The bandages hid the damage, made the injury seem less real than it really was. Still, Urey knew Roy had at least an inkling of what he was about to say. The soldier had been struggling to twitch even a finger ever since he had woken up.

Even now, his eyebrows drew together in concentration as he glared down at the offending appendage as if he could frighten it into moving; and if he could, then maybe what Urey was about to tell him wouldn’t be so bad. Urey found himself watching the hand and hoping the same thing.

It remained traitorously still.

Clearing his throat, the doctor continued with a dry mouth. “It was apparently at the forefront of the explosion. Probably saved the majority of your face from extensive damage.”

If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was that. Roy was, admittedly, a handsome young man, and it would have been a shame if his Xingese features had been defiled by the explosion. Also, pain like that would have probably sent him over the edge before the Rockbells could do anything to help him.

“However, the limb itself is… severely damaged.”

That was one word for it. This was when the Urey’s hatred of shopping lists came into play. He could rattle off the medical terminology for everything and try to explain it in scientific terms, leaving the patient utterly confused and suitably horrified, or he could oversimplify it with words like ‘severely damaged’.

“The explosion itself caused some concussive damage,” not as much as it should have, but Urey wasn’t going to question a good thing, “and cracked the bones in a few places.” Roy looked utterly confounded by this, looking down at his hand with bewilderment as he tried to understand why his bones could be in several pieces without him even noticing. “However, the fire caused significant damage to the nerves. Simply put, they were burned away.”

Ah, Roy knew exactly what that meant. His face crumpled for a brief moment, and it was then that Urey thought the man might allow those tears past his eyes. But then he wiped the slate clean, face falling into a stone facade of neutrality that hurt to witness.

“It’s not completely gone though, right?” The soldier asked. His voice was raspy and dry, barely managing to rise above the other noises in the room from the other medics and patients. He probably wouldn’t manage anything louder than a low mutter for at least a few days.

Urey would have assumed the question was made from his desperation if it weren’t for the sharp glint in his eye. “You would have just amputated it if it were. Most triage doctors would have anyway.  _ You  _ cleaned and bandaged it, as if it were salvageable.”

It  _ was  _ desperation, but it was a desperation fueled by logic.

“Perhaps,” the doctor explained slowly. “It may be salvageable. With a proper hospital and medical equipment, it’s possible a surgeon could salvage at least some maneuverability.”

“It’s possible then,” Roy insisted. “That’s all I need.”

He shifted, as if trying to sit up, but he barely moved his shoulder before he was pressing his forehead desperately against the bed and trying not to make a sound. Urey put a gentle hand on his waist, partially as a restraint and partially a comfort.

“Roy…” The doctor started hesitantly. “We’ll do everything we can to help you, but you need to recognize something.”

He didn’t look up at the doctor, but the trembling lessened slightly as he forced himself to stillness.

“This type of surgery is expensive.”  _ Really expensive. _ “The military may not… bother… with trying to repair such a damaged limb.” Roy flinched. “Once you get back to your camp, the triage doctors there may decide it isn’t worth it.” Urey swallowed. “You should probably be prepared for that.”

“That’s not going to happen,” the soldier’s voice was muffled from the sheets. Still, the stubborn denial could not be mistaken.

“Kid…” Urey chastised quietly. He debated on the point of trying to push the issue. “They get a lot of cases like yours every day-”

“It’s not going to happen,” the soldier’s voice was more forceful than Urey had thought possible for his damaged throat, his eyes hard embers when he raised his head to glare at Urey, “because I’m too important to them.” Roy’s mouth twisted into a dark smirk. “They can’t let me slip through the cracks.”

That last part was hilarious to the soldier, as he rolled his head back and restrained a few ill-advised chuckles.

Urey bit his lip, but said nothing. There were very few people the upper echelons found worth caring about, and the majority of them were the godawful state alchemists sent in to raze the land. A young soldier like Roy didn’t matter to the brass beyond if he could shoot a gun.

“We’ll do what we can,” Urey promised with a dry mouth. “We just have to wait until the fighting dies down a bit so we can transport everyone in relative safety.”

Hopefully the new hotbed this place had become would die out quickly. The sooner they could get Roy to proper medical care, in an actual hospital, the better.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Alright, raise it again,” Sarah instructed, politely ignoring the pained and almost whiney look on Roy’s face.

“Doc, if this is some form of torture I don’t know about, I’d really appreciate being told so I can at least scream curse words while I’m at it.” He was only partially joking.

Sara rolled her eyes. “Well, this is just rehabilitation, not some long plot to make you reveal state secrets. That doesn’t seem to be keeping you from the curse words anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Arm,” she reminded patiently.

With a resigned sigh, Roy fixed another glare at his right arm. Slowly, shaking uncontrollably, the limb attempted to raise from its position at his side. Sarah’s hands hovered inches away, guiding its process. It made it to about a forty degree angle, and then just stopped. His muscles were screaming at him now, protesting the movement in the loudest way possible.

The soldier bit his lip and glared even harder at the limb, trying to order it through sheer bullheaded determination it suck it up and lift higher. It remained fixed in its place, save for the shaking that had grown even more violent.

Sara was watching both limb and expression carefully, and the moment his face crumpled and his strength left him, she was already propping the limb up and holding it steady as the man no longer could.

The relaxation of his muscles made the pain a bit easier to bare, and Roy sent a grateful look her way.

“Great job Roy,” she praised calmly, looking happy with his failure rather than frustrated.

Roy couldn’t say he shared her pride in his forty-five degree angle. It was rather pathetic considering normal range of motion was 180 degrees or more. He suddenly felt exhausted, and just wanted to close his eyes and pretend the world didn’t have a cruel sense of irony.

She watched him carefully. “I’d like to keep going. Can you do that?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Finally, forcing a nod, he closed his eyes and faced his head away, already gritting his teeth.

“How’s the district looking?” He managed to ask, looking for distraction more than information about the battle front.

Sara didn’t reply for a moment, choosing instead to concentrate as she lifted his arm up millimeter by agonizing millimeter. Roy knew that the doctors were worried he was getting obsessive about it. Asking at least once a day for the last eight days will leave that sort of impression. This was the second time today, but, again, it was more for the distraction than the information that he asked.

“Paul went out again today,” she finally replied, rotating his arm until he winced and then holding it. “He said it was the same as before. Lots of guerilla tactics in some sections, trench warfare in others. Either way, both sides are jumpy enough that we can’t risk going out there, not even to help the wounded. There’s too many twitchy trigger fingers for it to be even remotely safe.”

Unspoken was that it was too dangerous to attempt to transport the wounded to their respective sides. Even the walking wounded, perfectly capable of stumbling back to their own camps without an entire medical entourage, were wary of finding themselves on the wrong end of a nervous gun.

And Roy’s injuries were a bit too serious to be classified at ‘walking’ at this point. Technically, he could argue -and he did on multiple occasions- his legs were perfectly fine. In face, they were the least damaged part of him. Of course, it was a rather weak argument to his doctors whenever they found him out of bed without their permission.

“Are there any State Alchemists in the area?” He doubted it. He would have heard the explosions if there were.

“No. The Flame Alchemist was nearby a couple of weeks ago, but he must have been sent to a different area. There haven’t been any burn victims beside you.” She shot a scowl at him. “For which you should be thankful for. We wouldn’t bother to babysit your antics if we had other, more mature patients that don’t get out of bed the moment we turn around.”

Roy looked scandalized. “More mature?” he repeated. “I’m perfectly mature.” He ignored the voice in his head that reminded him he was the youngest State Alchemist in history, and had the naive idealism to prove it.

“No, mature adults are polite to their doctors and listen to their orders and thank them for their hard work.”

“I’m polite! An actual gentleman,” he continued to protest.

Sara laughed. “Sure. When you want something you can be impeccably polite.”

She took an analytical look at his face, which had grown pale and sweaty as the therapy continued. His arm was shaking uncontrollably, even with her steadying hands, and he looked a bit nauseous as well.

The doctor lowered his hand down to his side with a sigh, and reached over to help him get the sling back on. He kept his eyes on her face, despite the fact she knew she was giving him an accidental look at her cleavage, and she had to agree with him. The soldier was actually a very polite man, if a little manipulative or childish sometimes.

“Alright. Just sit and rest for a few minutes.” She helped him adjust so he was sitting against the wall. “I have some other patients to check up on, but I should be back to help with the other hand in a bit.”

Roy snagged her hand right before she left. “Doctor.” His expression was of nothing but sincerity. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome Roy,” she returned with the same sincerity. “Get some rest.” She patted his shin comfortingly before moving away.

______________________________________________________________________________

Roy wasn’t entirely sure why he hid his identity from the doctors. Maybe ‘hid’ was the wrong word. He didn’t actively lie to them. He didn’t tell them a false name or rank.

The thing was, they had just never asked. In all of the frantic bustle of their med bay, it had never once crossed the mind of either of the doctors to ask him for more identification than a first name. They weren’t like soldiers. They didn’t bother with red tape and bureaucracy. Ranking meant nothing to them beyond how much their patient would be a pain in the ass to deal with. And a last name… what did it matter when they already had his first. They could communicate with him without it, so what did it matter if he was Major Roy Mustang?

They didn’t imagine in their wildest dreams that their burn victim could be the Flame Alchemist. It was too ironic, and he was too young, too human to be such a monster. And of course his gloves had been burnt up in the explosion so there was no trace of alchemy on him.

He liked it. The anonymity. He liked being able to hold a conversation with someone and not see blame or fear or hero worship in their eyes.

The Rockbells wouldn’t go mad and try to kill him if they knew who he was. They wouldn’t even let their Ishvalan patients or helpers do the same either. They would protect him and help him heal, just as they had been.

But he feared the day when Urey wouldn’t call him an impetuous brat because the doctor was too afraid he’d get roasted for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any medical inconsistencies I make in this story. Type '3rd degree burn treatment' and all you get is a bunch of pictures and advise that you should probably go to a doctor and have them treat you. It's good advise, but not helpful for a writer.


	3. Night Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of adult language in this chapter. I try not to use it too often but sometimes the situation (or character, as Ed will prove in later chapters) calls for it. Enjoy!

Roy tried not to let his feet drag through the sand, but it was hard to pick up his leaden feet and even harder to work up the antipathy to care. Hughes would be yelling at him right now for being stupid enough to leave a trail right to his position. Hawkeye wouldn’t have let him leave the camp in the first place because it was even more stupid to be out here without backup.

So, in this theoretical situation where Hawkeye and Hughes were aware he had stumbled from camp in a blurry haze, they were both pissed off of at him. But, in mathematics, two negatives made a positive. As a scientist, he fully embraced the laws of mathematics, so his stupidity obviously canceled itself out. Because math.

Roy realized he had stopped walking and sighed. It was little things like these -when he lost time, when he wasn’t even aware of his body’s actions, when it stopped functioning just because he wasn’t screaming at it to keep moving forward- that made him feel truly helpless. Helpless and hopeless and already buried by the sand alongside the other thousands of people killed in this senseless war.

He was being melodramatic again. If Hughes were here, he would have whipped out a couple of pictures of his girlfriend or called Roy a Firebug until the alchemist snapped at him and then he would have pulled Roy into an entire argument just to avoid the dark thoughts that plagued the alchemist every time he was left time to think.

But Roy was alone with his thoughts. That was part of the problem.

He looked back at the dragging trail he had left, and decided he didn’t really care. Let the Ishvalans come and try to kill him.

_ Do you want them to come so that they’ll kill you… or so you can kill them?” _

Roy snorted. “That’s a stupid question,” he told the air. He was tentatively suicidal, not murderous.

_ Thousands of Ishvalans wouldn’t agree. _

“Shut up Kimblee.” Was it a sign of madness when he named his own subconscious after an insane psychopath?

The voice in his head just laughed.

He scrubbed at his head roughly, the ignition cloth of his gloves like sandpaper on his sand-encrusted cheeks.

It was Kimblee’s fault. The Crimson Alchemist just wouldn’t stop  _ prodding _ \- continuously getting under his skin with fanatical sermons about their destined role to kill -to enjoy killing- because the power they wielded made them more powerful than anyone else could possibly understand and-

Pulling at his hair, he derailed that train of thought as violently as possible and then alchemized a mountain on top of it.

He cursed himself for coming out here. It was too quiet- he was left alone with the treacherous thoughts in his head and no Maes to pull him kicking and screaming out of his own skull. He should have stayed at camp and forced himself to play poker with the others or something. He should go back now, before he drove himself mad in the scorching sun.

His foot had barely scuffed the sand to turn before he froze.

No. No, he couldn’t go back yet. He couldn’t handle those large crowds, the jostling groups of men putting on a hefty swagger as if sheer confidence will save them from being shot. There were too many judgemental looks on everyone’s faces, and not a Hawkeye or Hughes to shield him. They had been left behind at the last camp for cleanup while Roy was ordered ahead for the next extermination.

How pathetic was he that he couldn’t survive his own base camp without his friends there to babysit him 24/7?

Well now his theoretical version of Hughes was yelling at him for that thought process, and theoretical Hawkeye was giving him that disappointed raised eyebrow look that said she expected better of a genius alchemist.

Alright, so they were both mad at him again.

With a smirk, Roy turned around and continued his wandering journey through the desolate buildings, on the search for another negative just to spite them into positivity.

______________________________________________________________________________

… Well.

He’d really stepped in it this time.

The start of a guerilla shootout version of whack-a-mole, one of the forms of combat with the highest percentage of friendly fire casualties, and he was out here, in the middle of enemy territory, with no gun, no team, and no one aware of where he was. And, to top it all off, he was pretty sure the lump of wires and metal in the corner of the room was ticking.

Negative infinity was still a negative number.

Now, the smart thing here would be to turn around and book it as far away as possible until he was out of the blast range. A sane person would already have left the room.

But Roy’s feet remained planted, mere feet away from a bomb and with no indication of movement any time soon.

The same thought looped through his brain without pause, and he couldn’t find a reason to break it.

Looping and looping and the mass of wires just kept ticking and ticking and how metaphorical was it that there was a literal countdown to the end continuously ticking and ticking-

…

He really was a wretched person.

“I’m sorry Riza. Sorry Maes.”

The alchemist took a step back, finally leaving the death trap he had almost assigned himself to.

The wire bit into his calf and grew taught. His attempt to halt only sent him tripping further into the rusty metal. It strained for a brief moment, and then released.

_ Click. _

The ignition engaged, and the flare started.

The canister blew outwards. A wave of fire reached hungrily for the Flame Alchemist.

He leaped back. Survival was all that he knew.

_ Snap. _

Flames shot from Roy’s fingers to greet it’s twin.

It seemed fitting the Flame Alchemist should die in the same agony as his victims.

______________________________________________________________________________

He was burning. Every cell was on fire. His lungs… were  _ scalding _ . The oxygen he desperately needed only fueled the reaction -fueled  _ it  _ like it fueled his alchemy- and he couldn’t  _ breathe _ .

Dimly, he was aware of a woman in front of him.

Dimly, he watched her wrestle with flailing hands -his hands- as she shouted something indiscernible past the ringing in his ears but he was burning and couldn’t breathe.

If he could he would be screaming- his gaping mouth would be wailing in agony- but only a low whine is coming out and that’s the only reason he can hear the woman-  _ Sara Rockbell  _ -shout a name that only sounds vaguely familiar and he paws at her arms because he needs to feel something  _ real  _ but all that’s there is muffled cotton and he can’t  _ breathe- _

“Roy!” Sara was shouting, sounding anguished and lost and a little terrified and that was  _ wrong  _ because Sara had nerves of steel and a scathing mouth for when patients got mouthy with her. “You need to calm down. You have to breathe-” She was telling him.

Breathe? How could he breathe when his lungs were on fire? Couldn’t she see they were nothing more than smouldering charcoal now and there was no way he could breathe without his lungs?

His hands were still desperately pawing at her arms but he couldn’t move them and couldn’t even feel them. Terror punched through him because if his hands were gone where were they and why were they missing-

“ROY!”

His arms were being pushed aside and Sara was coming in close. His head was pulled off the pile of sheets that had served as a pillow and pressed against something warm. Arms wrapped around him, shielding him from the world, and all he could think was that this was fine. This was safe. The steady thrum of her heart chorused in his ear, fast but  _ there _ .

Roy forced his eyes closed.

“I need you to count with me, alright Roy? Just repeat after me, alright?” He could feel her voice vibrate in her chest as she spoke, and he figured counting couldn’t be too hard. He could count with her. “One.”

The sound he choked out could hardly be called a word, but she kept going, taking him to two and three and six and finally ten until he could breathe again and he was wheezing large breaths into her chest. Comforting hands stroked through his hair as his tears stained her shirt, but he was far too  _ tired  _ and admittedly  _ scared  _ to push her away and pretend everything was okay.

After a long while, it could have been a century for all Roy knew, his breaths finally evened out enough for Sara to pull away enough to make eye contact, her worried eyes looking him over for more signs of distress.

“Doing okay?”

Roy knew she was asking if he was  _ presently  _ okay, if he wasn’t about to dissolve into another wave of hysterics if she pulled away. He knew that, but he still couldn’t restrain the demeaning laughter that rose to his lips.

“Okay?” He sounded hysterical again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Did that  _ look  _ okay? Does any of this even  _ remotely  _ resemble okay?”

Sara’s hand tightened on his shoulder and he hated that it helped him so much. He pulled his knees to his chest and shoved his face in them, ignoring the biting pain in his side the action caused. His bandaged hands pressed against his head as if he could crush the cruel images in his mind.

“I don’t even know what that was.” His muffled voice finally answered. “I felt like I was dying.” He hated how scared he sounded as each word trembled. He hated that he couldn’t even bring himself to look the doctor in the eye.

She sat on the bed beside him, keeping a grounding grip on his arm with one hand while the other rubbed soothing circles into his back. “It was a panic attack, Roy.”

“It wasn’t a  _ fucking  _ panic attack!” His head shot up to glare at her- and that was just great, now he was yelling at the person trying to help him. He forced himself to take a shaky breath. “I’ve had panic attacks before. That… that wasn’t a panic attack.”

“It’s understandable they would be more extreme after such a traumatic experience,” she told him kindly. “It’s your mind’s way of trying to cope with what your body is going through.”

Roy snorted softly. “This whole war has been a traumatic experience.”

The doctor just nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked.

Roy shook his head. “It was what you would expect. Guns. Blood. Fire. Maes was bleeding out in front of me and I couldn’t bring myself to-” He cut himself off sharply. “It was what you would expect,” he repeated stubbornly.

“It wasn’t the explosion then? You mentioned fire, but it’s not your main problem, is it? Despite all of the wounds it caused.”

He ignored the hint of analytical doctor in her voice and tried to focus on the concerned friend, pretending they were sharing stories over smuggled whiskey rather than having an impromptu therapy session.

“The fire was never a big deal,” Roy admitted. He rubbed his bandaged hands together until Sara forcibly separated them with her own hand. “It’s not the first time I’ve been burned, and if I stay in the military, it honestly probably isn’t the last.” Learning flame alchemy had left him no shortage of burns, though obviously none had been to the degree he was currently plagued with. “It’s usually people.”

He stopped, unable to continue until Sara prodded softly. “People?”

“Yeah. People I killed. People I couldn’t save. People that are depending on me to save them, then I fail them anyway.” The alchemist chuckled softly. “People are terrifying.”

Sara pursed her lips. “That’s a lot of weight to have on your shoulders.”

“Yeah.”

He felt her sharp stare burrowing into him, reading what he left unspoken, and stared at his hands, unable to meet her eyes.

They sat silently for a bit longer. Roy once again broke the silence, sounding too small in the vast darkness surrounding them. “I can’t do that again.”

“You can handle it,” she asserted stubbornly. “Just like you’ve been handling everything else that’s been thrown at you.”

“With vast amounts of kicking and screaming then,” Roy laughed softly.

Smiling, she shook her head and poked him gently in the chest. “With that stubborn lion’s heart of yours.”

“Well now you’re starting to sound cheesy,” he told her helpfully.

“You’re starting to sound like your usual smug self.”

“I aim to please.”

Sara rolled her eyes and shifted. An irrational fear shot through him and he once again grappled at her arm in an attempt to grab her through the many bandages. She paused in her movement and took his less wounded hand in her own, frowning as she tried to suss out the reason for his frantic response.

“Please don’t go.”

She wrapped an arm around him and hugged him as tightly as she dared. “I’m not leaving.”

“Keep talking?” He requested, feeling childish even as he asked it. “Wait, no,” he backtracked, shaking his head. “Urey’s probably waiting for you to go back to bed. You’re already stuck with me the entirety of the day. You should go.”

“Urey,” she laughed, “is snoring into the pillow as we speak. Last night was his night to make the rounds. Tonight is mine.” Leveling a steady smile at him, she added, “Besides. You need the company more than he does right now.”

It was a flimsy explanation and Roy should have kept trying to send her off to bed to get some well deserved sleep, but he let it go. He let her stay because he desperately needed her around to ward away the silence that threatened to choke him.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Now, I don’t think I’ve told you about our darling daughter we have back home, have I? We have to rectify that because Winry’s just too amazing to not be gloated over.”

Roy wondered how he always managed to find people able to pull him out of his depression with a combination of snark and baby photos.

______________________________________________________________________________

 

“Hey, Doc?” Roy’s voice was quiet and a bit raspy, but Urey was still able to make it out over the din of activity in the room.

“Hmm?” Urey spared a quick glance at his patient and saw him relaxing with his eyes closed against the wall behind him. Aside from the occasional flinch, he was perfectly at ease. A sharp contrast from the frantic person from last night that Sara had described to him. Urey was beginning to learn that Roy was a man of many masks.

“Forgive me for asking, but you’re not from Central, right?” The doctor hesitated in his answer, surprised by the random comment. The silence grew as he contemplated giving Roy a false answer. The soldier didn’t seem like a bad person, in fact, Urey quite enjoyed having him around, but Winry and his mother were back in Resembool. Telling people where he lived was just… too dangerous for them, even if the likelihood of someone ever trying to track them down was minimal.

“You don’t have to answer,” Roy was already backtracking, coolly sliding into another topic with the practiced ease of avoiding uncomfortable conversations.

Urey found himself curious as to what had brought up the question and recovered the conversation before Roy could redirect.

“No, it’s fine. You’re right. Sarah and I are from a small town near East City. There’s nothing but sheep for miles around.”

Roy laughed lightly. “I knew it.”

“Oh?” Urey chuckled with him. “What gave us away?” He nudged the soldier’s knee in a nonverbal cue to shift his positioning.

“Well,” Roy grunted as he pulled himself up straighter and swung his legs off the bed, “You wouldn’t let a soldier within a hundred feet of your wife if you’d been forced to live surrounded by the amount of bored soldiers wasting away in Central. Soldiers are notorious for trying to court anything that looks even remotely available.”

“Really.” Urey leveled an unimpressed stare at him, just daring the man to try to flirt with Sara. She would knock him into next year if he tried.

Roy nodded emphatically. “They’re so horny they would probably flirt with a horse if its fur was soft enough,” he asserted, a childish gleam in his eye. The doctor couldn’t help but laugh as he levered Roy’s arm into a circuitous motion. “Hughes is terrified some smarmy bastard that was lucky enough to avoid deployment will try to put the moves on his girlfriend while he’s stuck out here,” the soldier laughed.

A fond smile took over at the mention of his friend and Roy allowed himself another long chuckle, his expression more relaxed than they’ve been all week. Urey exchanged an affectionate smile of his own with Sara over Roy’s shoulder. After his episode last night, they had worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up the joking attitude he’d maintained throughout the entirety of the week. But it seemed he was doing… not okay, but not badly either.

That defeated look Urey had feared was still, thankfully, absent, even as the fighting continued on outside and the chance of surgical repair for his hand grew thinner and thinner.

“Lecherous flirts, the lot of them,” Roy declared.

A young private with a bullet wound in his shoulder sitting on a nearby cot made an affronted noise that made Sarah laugh and pat his leg consolingly. “And I suppose you’re one of these lecherous flirts stealing away people’s wives, huh Roy?”

Roy cracked a wide grin. “Yes ma’am. Right at the top of the list.” He angled a teasing smirk at her. “Better be careful or I’ll steal Urey here from right under your nose.”

“Hmm, I better watch out. Wouldn’t want that to happen,” she teased, sneaking a loving peck on Urey’s offended expression.

Roy nudged Urey’s knee with his foot to get his attention again, where his teasing grin had changed to convey earnest sincerity. “No, but seriously guys,” he said, directing the sincerity at the two of them with as much force as he could. “It’s dangerous out here, and you don’t have to be in the middle of a warzone risking your lives to help us, sacrificing your lives to make us comfortable.”

He leaned forward to rest his less damaged hand on Urey’s forearm. “ _ Thank you. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love the idea of the Rockbells continuously pulling a Hughes and showing off pictures of Winry to anyone that would look at them.
> 
> Thank you all for all of your support. Things are going to pick up in excitement next chapter. We have two very special guest stars showing up. Here's a quote from the Brotherhood gag reel as a hint:
> 
> "YOUR FACE ESPLODE!!!!!"
> 
> If you haven't seen the gag reel, you haven't seen the series. Go watch it. Right now. It's hilarious.


	4. The Flame Alchemist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctors and soldiers had very little in common. But a horrifying truth remained constant for both. Hard decisions always had to be made.

The day Urey discovered Roy was the monster in human skin known as the Flame Alchemist was also the day he decided that he was a man of enviable honor.

Not in the small ways, the doctor amended as he watched the man attempt to sweet talk Sara into a higher dosage of painkillers.

No, honorable was the last thought that came to Urey’s mind as he sought to describe Roy on an everyday basis. Smug brat was more accurate. Incorrigible flirt. Arrogant and prideful at the worst of times. And painfully stubborn.

Really, Urey could go on for days. He had, after all, had three weeks to learn about the man that was Roy Mustang.

Three weeks of a teasing smirk meeting Urey’s glare every time he hit on Sara. Three weeks of comments thrown into the open for the sheer purpose of riling his two doctors into a frenzy. Three weeks of inappropriate self-deprecating jokes that made Urey want to smack his patient upside the head with a clipboard.

If he hadn’t left his clipboard in the first triage base they had set up and had to abandon quickly, Roy would be picking splinters out of his brain.

Definitely not honorable in the small ways.

Sara was lecturing Roy on his attempts to weasel painkillers out of her, shutting down his placid flirtations with her own sardonic remarks, and he responded with a sheepishly apologetic smile, a laughing glint in his eyes, as he had every other time he was bested in a verbal sparring match.

He threw a questioning look Urey’s way, as he always did, looking for affirmation that his teasing was being taken in good fun and not threatening attempts to steal away the doctor’s wife (a possibility Urey had absolutely no concern for, but it was a kind gesture nonetheless).

Urey sighed and rolled his eyes at the young soldier, turning away as he did so. It was difficult to connect the persona of Flame Alchemist with this bantering young man with a quick tongue.

Despite all he had learned in this war about soldiers doing horrifying things for the sake of orders or survival or panic, he hadn’t managed to extend that understanding to the State Alchemists. Not when they sent dismembered innocents and charred corpses to their triage center; all of them screaming for some relief or too badly scorched to care about anything anymore.

Indifference was the best Urey had thought he could manage towards the military dogs.

At least, until two days ago when a young corporal missing the majority of his leg and spilling his guts over the floor was dropped on the nearest table, screaming his voice to mere croaks as tears poured down his cheeks.

Before that, the house had been chaotic with much less bloody activity. Each Amestrian soldier was either stomping about in their heavy combat boots, shaking the dust from the rafters as they collected any wayward possessions and supplies for a day’s worth of travel, or on the cots being bandaged expertly in expectation of travel.

And, practically trembling with excitement, Roy received his own heavy bandaging on one of the many cots. Urey couldn’t force the grin from his face as he unwrapped the old bandaging, delicately peeling away the dirtied cloth. Any pain the action may have caused barely warranted a twitch from the soldier and did absolutely nothing to drop the badly-restrained smile that brightened his features.

The fighting had wound down enough for the soldiers to return to base camp. A stretcher was waiting with Roy’s name on it to be carted down. And, if all went well, the medics at their camp would send Roy on the first transport to the nearest hospital, where they could attempt to salvage his unresponsive limb and hopefully reduce the scarring along his chest.

It had started to look like a lost cause.

The doctor’s spirits were dampened slightly as he looked over Roy’s right arm for, hopefully, the last time, checking for progress or, in this case, lack thereof. The skin was either a grisly red or sickly white, and puss leaked from multiple areas, especially around the tip of the hand where any attempts at healing may have been bumped or broken.

“Okay…” Roy said, sounding sick. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s infection,” Urey told him matter of factly. Roy always seemed to appreciate when the facts were given to him straight. The soldier paled significantly, his jubilation lost in the wake of the revelation. The doctor rushed to assure his patient. “But don’t worry. The doctors back at your camp should still be able to treat this. It’s only if it goes untreated that it will cause problems.”

Roy forced a smirk. “That’s good.” He didn’t sound very assured, and pointedly avoided looking at the limb as Urey took his time wrapping it tightly.

It was as he was finishing with the last of the bandaging that the injured corporal was rushed in and a new type of chaos broke through the haze of excitement that had been drifting through the many soldiers.

Urey was already focused on the newest addition, rushing to meet him at the operating table, so he missed the horrified look on Roy’s face.

Sara didn’t even spare an apologetic glance as she passed Roy to join Urey.

The two doctors didn’t notice as Roy left his cot to join them, peering over Sara’s shoulder at the corporal’s tightly scrunched face. A puff of breath and a gasped name behind her ear was her first indication with how closely the soldier had gotten to the cot. Her focus was the only reason she didn’t jump two feet in the air and try to stab him in the eye; instead he just got a glare and a stressed “Roy move  _ back _ !”

He ignored her for the most part, conceding by moving closer to the corporal’s head and out of her general vicinity but not retreating to his cot as she wanted.

“ _ Roy! _ ” She hissed, her attention split between the frantic movements of her hands and the stubborn soldier.

Roy touched a bandaged hand to the corporal’s wet cheek. The corporal’s eyes opened hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to acknowledge the hell the world had become but couldn’t help but curiously investigate at the tender hand on his face.

He blinked several times to clear his vision, not quite believing the blurry images.

“Major Mustang?” The corporal croaked, disbelief in every syllable. Urey paused in his work, drawn by the desperate hope that had managed to break through his incredible pain. Sara mouthed an overexaggerated  _ Major?  _ at Urey sent a suspicious glance at Roy, then turned back to her work in the space of less than a second.

“Corporal Sanders,” Roy acknowledged gently.

New tears cropped up in Sanders’ eyes, and Urey almost forcibly pushed Roy away to stop him from causing any more distress to the trauma victim, but was stopped when the corporal asked in a hesitantly hopeful voice, “You aren’t dead?”

Roy wrapped his hand around the back of the man’s neck in a comforting gesture and squeezed gently. “I’m not dead,” he confirmed. “And neither are you, kiddo.”

Sanders let out a gasp of relief, relaxing ever so slightly from the tense rubber band he had been before as if the presence of his commander somehow took away some of the unbearable pain. “Thank God,” the corporal sobbed.

Roy settled on the very edge of the cot, a strong presence standing guard at the man’s head while he carded delicately through his subordinate’s hair. Roy remembered very little from his first arrival at the Rockbell’s trauma center; it was all just a blur of pain and despair, but he remembered the feeling of a caring hand through his hair; a point of comfort in an otherwise agonizing existence. A solid glare just  _ dared  _ either of the doctors to attempt to force him away from the corporal. They didn’t even try.

Roy kept his eyes averted from the mass of flesh at the doctors’ fingertips and stayed focused on his subordinate’s face until the doctors started mumbling between the two of them, quietly debating something even as they began to bandage the wound as best they could.

It was only when they kept throwing repeated glances at Roy, his existence having at least some basis in the argument, that Roy began to get an inkling of what they were debating.

“Doctor Rockbell?” Roy interrupted, feeling his face pale when they looked up at him in unison with slightly guilty looks. “Is he going to make it?” The corporal was in a fitful sleep, tossing his head every now and then and twitching spasmodically.

“Maybe,” Urey answered, squaring his shoulders as if to deliver a blow. Or maybe preparing to take one, if his defensively crossed arms meant anything. “If we can get him back to his camp. If their medic has the supplies needed for the surgery.”

The unspoken words felt like a punch to the face and a weight off his shoulders at the same time.

“He needs the stretcher,” Roy realized, sending a mixed look at the haphazardly constructed plank that was his only form of transportation back to camp. He had loathed the very idea of it since Sara had brought it up, but now he felt like his last grip on something resembling hope was being yanked from his mangled hands.

“That’s fine,” he rushed to say, slightly hysterical in his forced optimism. “I can walk with the rest. Sergeant Grif can help me out.”

The doctor’s jaw grew tighter and he looked away.

They had already had this argument. Unwilling to sacrifice the last dregs of his dignity to the stretcher, Roy had bitched and moaned for hours that he was perfectly capable of walking the distance back to camp. It had taken a while and ended with the soldier sulking in a corner for a while, but Urey had eventually pounded it into his head that no, he couldn’t walk back to camp; hell, he could barely walk ten feet on his own.

And with the skin grafts taken from his thighs in order to fill in the burnt out skin on his chest, even a piggyback ride was beyond him.

Roy bit his lip hard enough to draw blood from the cracked skin. He choked down an angry scream. Instead, a tiny “dammit” made its way out of his mouth before he once again looked down at his injured subordinate.

He could pull rank, and no one would be able to say anything about it.

“SHIT!” he screamed louder, kicking his foot out at the nearest thing in a fit of blind rage that sent sharp needles up his entire torso and down his entire leg.

The table jerked at least half a foot from the force of the blow, even with the entire weight of Corporal Sanders on top of it.

The young soldier jerked awake, his wail slicing through the room like a cannon.

Roy paled dramatically and barely managed to shuffle off to the side before being pushed out of the way by Sara as she slid into place beside her patient.

“Do something like that again and I will jab my scalpel in your eye,” she hissed, sounding absolutely furious.

He didn’t bring his gaze away from the Corporal’s pain-tightened features long enough to give her a reply. She didn’t pay enough attention to him to receive any reply he might have managed.

“He needs better supplies. We need to get him out of here. Now.” Sara said, strapping another layer of bandages over the already bled-through cloth.

Roy shook his head savagely, throwing the static that had filled his brain as far from thought as possible. “Paul!” He called the young man over, already limping to meet him halfway. Paul scurried over, his lanky limbs crossing the distance with enviable speed. A hesitant look had overtaken his eyes as they flicked between the doctors still working on triaging the corporal and the man before him. “They need to get this man to camp as soon as possible. Bring the stretcher over and help them get him loaded up.”

The mousy man nodded, leaping away before Roy had even finished speaking.

The alchemist, confident Paul would get the job done, turned away, scanning the nearby faces and rushing bodies for a familiar limping gait. “Sergeant Grif!” The blond head snapped to attention from across the room, hearing the authority in his tone despite the flurry of movement between them and reacting instantly to a superior’s voice.

Grif scanned the room, an uncertain look creasing his brow, as he tried to identify the source. Roy caught his eye and gestured rapidly for him to come closer. To his credit, the soldier didn’t even hesitate, despite that Roy had never bothered to make it clear just how far up the chain of command he was.

“We have an emergency. You need to move out as soon as possible. Otherwise Sanders won’t make it back to camp before bleeding out,” Roy told him in a low tone, gesturing to the writhing form that was being lifted onto the stretcher. “Make sure everyone is ready to go the moment the doctors give the go ahead.”

Grif nodded before eyeing Roy critically. “And you sir? Should we throw together another stretcher for you?”

Mustang was already shaking his head. “No. There’s not enough manpower to get two stretchers safely across the zone. I’ll be remaining behind.”

“But Sir-!” Grif protested.

“Get the men organized Sergeant.” With that, Mustang clapped the man on the shoulder and moved back towards his corporal, who was now splayed out across the stretcher and being restrained to it.

Kneeling down, he seized the man’s flailing hand and squeezed tightly. “Sanders.”

“Major,” the man choked out. “Major it hurts.”

“I know it does kid.” He didn’t notice the negligible age gap that put them at approximately the same age. The disparity of him calling  _ anyone  _ ‘kid’. Urey wanted to laugh and cry at the same time at the injustice of it all. “It’s painful and it sucks, but you’ll be okay. I promise.”

A low wail emanated from the injured man.

“Hey,” Roy wiped stray tears from the soldier’s cheeks before gripping the side of his face firmly. “Have I ever broken a promise?”

The kid shook his head stiffly.

“See?” Out of the corner of his eye, Roy saw Grif approach. “Sargeant Grif will take good care of you. Otherwise, I may just have to set his ass on fire.”

Sanders forced a watery smile. Grif, on the other hand, had paled a degree and was staring at Roy with a mix of fascination and terror.

At a signal from the doctors, Grif and another soldier both leaned down to take hold of the stretcher. Roy gave Sanders’ shoulder one last reassuring squeeze. “Stay strong Corporal.”

“Long live the Flame,” Sanders muttered. He was lifted out of Roy’s reach.

Grif paused for a moment to give Roy a steady look. “We’ll tell everyone where you are. Just you watch, Major Mustang. We’ll bring half the army to retrieve you, sir. And I’ll be leading the charge.”

Roy barely managed a weak smile before they disappeared out the door, a stampeding whirlwind of movement that left the room feeling still and silent.

Roy dropped his head and just tried not to think.

From mere feet away, Urey observed his patient from behind a completely different filter than he had been over the last few weeks. And he found himself frozen, paralyzed with the knowledge that he could be  _ so  _ wrong about a person, be so  _ unaware  _ of what was going on around him.

Roy Mustang, the State Alchemist with the largest kill count in the entire Ishvalan war, had  _ flirted with Urey’s wife _ , had cracked jokes with Urey himself, and the doctor hadn’t even known. Wouldn’t have even thought to suspect.

The Flame Alchemist.

And Sara was kneeling beside him and offering a gentle hand to help the trembling kid to his feet.

“You look tired, Major,” she said softly. “Let’s get you back into bed.”

The commander that had possessed Roy ever since his subordinate was dragged into the house had drained away to leave nothing but the husk of a burn victim, too fatigued to reply beyond a tired, “Don’t call me that. Please.”

Sara threw a uneasy glance Urey’s way before helping the poor man to his shaking feet and back to the cot that, only earlier that day, they had been convinced he had said his goodbyes to.

Urey dragged a hand down his face and felt like he’d aged a century.

Suddenly, Roy’s nightmares made a horrifying amount of sense.

And two days later, when the alchemist continued to exchange witty remarks with his two doctors, stalwartly avoiding any mention of his role in the war like a normal man would avoid a fire -almost desperate in his avoidance, with a terrified gleam in his eyes- Urey could not muster up any disgust for his patient. Mustang had killed thousands of Ishvalan, burned them to a crisp, yet the only anger or disgust Urey could muster was in regards to this god awful massacre that took bright young men like Roy and turned them into killers with terror in their eyes.

_ Fuck _ this civil war.

Sara had finally disentangled herself from Roy’s entreaties for a higher morphine dose -he was well aware that their supplies were currently so negligible to be nonexistent, so the begging was merely a grab for attention (or distraction)- and was leaving with the promise to return later to help with Roy’s physical therapy when Urey called out to her, a concerned glint in his eye as he observed their most troublesome patient.

Roy frowned as the two doctors congregated around his cot. “Something wrong Doc?”

“Feeling feverish at all, Roy?” Urey asked, eyeing the sweat beading on his brow despite the relative coolness of the day.

“Not especially,” Roy said at length.

Sara gestured wordlessly for Roy to turn his shoulder to her, catching onto Urey’s thought process immediately.

“Really,” Urey said doubtfully, putting an invasive wrist on the his patient’s forehead and glaring at him when he attempted to lean away. “Because you’re feeling a bit hot here, even for a Flame Alchemist.”

“It’s the desert,” Roy protested feebly. Any further bad explanations were cut off when Sara delicately bared swollen and pussy flesh to the world, balancing the marred limb on the tips of her fingers. A putrid stench wafted through the air and Roy coughed dramatically. Urey limited himself to merely wrinkling his nose.

“It’s still fixable, right?” He glanced between the two doctors exchanging solemn glances above him. “Grif knows where we are. I’ll be at a surgical clinic within a day.” Unrestrained desperation shook his voice, only growing as the doctors failed to reply.

Finally, Urey cleared his throat. “Even if the surgeon came in three hours, prepped with the most high tech equipment in Central, I wouldn’t be willing to put this off. We’ve already ignored it for too long.”

Roy threw his left arm out, sweeping through the air. “ _ Bullshit!” _

Sara barely managed to keep a hold of his raised arm, accidentally digging her nails into the corroded flesh. The tug on his shoulder sent him gasping, leaning against Urey for strength that had fled his bones.

For a long minute, all Roy could do was try to catch his breath, destroyed skin screaming at him from the upper part of his arm.

For a long minute, all Roy could feel was the absence of a similar screaming pain lower down  his arm. He stared at the impression Sara’s fingers had left in the skin, and tried not to puke.

“I’m sorry Roy,” Sara told him, dressing the wound quickly and once again helping it into its sling. “We did what we could.”

When the man remained unresponsive, she crouched down to be eye level. “Urey’s mother is an automail engineer. One of the best.” Eyeing the forsaken limb, she admitted, “It won’t be quite as dextrous as a flesh hand, and it will take a while to get used to, but eventually you’ll be just as efficient. Might not even notice it half of the time.”

Urey added his own piece by tapping a tentative spot on Roy’s forearm below the elbow. “Your elbow is healing rather well in comparison. We should be able to get away with going below the joint.” Roy paled even further, staring down at the spot with an expression akin to horror, and Urey considered that maybe his attempt at comfort had been a little off of the mark.

He used to be good at this sort of thing. But right now, all Urey could consider was that Roy was lucky to be alive in the first place, and under these circumstances, what they saved was incredible.

Urey sighed. “I’m sorry Roy, really. But we need to get this done, today, before the infection gets any worse. You already have a fever.”

Roy flinched and dipped his head to hide his eyes behind his lengthy hair. “Can I… can I have a few minutes?” He asked quietly.

The doctors once again threw a concerned glance at each other before Urey answered. “Sure Roy. We need to get an area prepped first.”

“We’ll be right over there, Roy, if you need us” Sara assured gently.

Roy made no sign that he had heard them, but they moved away and left him to his thoughts, however dark they may be.

Perhaps it was a good thing Roy had only a few minutes before the world started to shake. Dust falling from the rafters in sheets fell on all of their heads, coating their hair in a fine layer of sand.

Urey barely had time to shout before the floor once again shook, a resounding  _ boom  _ thundering in the distance, and sent him stumbling into Sara’s steadying grip. Roy had a white knuckled grip on the table, looking distinctly paler from the vibrations.

“It’s an alchemist,” Sara realized, true to form as she was the first to jump to action and rush to the window, where a collapsing building could be seen in the distance, along with clouds of dust and smoke.

Roy stumbled to her side. “It’s Kimblee. A State Alchemist.” He recognized the signs of his particular brand of destruction anywhere. “We need to evacuate. If he’s been assigned to raze this sector…” He didn’t need to finish illustrating the thought for the others.

“A State Alchemist? Is it possible he’s the backup Sergeant Grif promised to send to retrieve you?” Sara asked, already sounding like she knew the bleak answer to the optimistic question.

“If he is,” Roy answered, striding away from the window to help an Ishvalan man to his feet and gently pushing him towards the door, “it won’t matter anyway. Kimblee has a penchant for destroying entire blocks of buildings without thought for collateral.”

Pale-faced, Urey turned to the young Paul that had instinctively gravitated to his side. “Let everyone know we’re going to have to move. Start prepping the people who need more extensive care, and get some people to round up some wagons for transport.” The lanky man scurried to execute the doctor’s orders. More to himself than the surrounding people, Urey commented “It’s a good thing the largest portion of our patients moved out earlier. It’s easier to corral eleven people than twenty-seven.”

Sara nodded in agreement before pointing to a nearby cot. “Roy, sit down until we can get around to rewrapping your injuries. I don’t want you out in the desert without firm protection.”

The Flame Alchemist nodded and distractedly sat on the cot, a steady eye locked on the smoke in the distance.

______________________________________________________________________________

“DAMMIT!” Urey cursed loudly, the echo ringing through the room but lost under the terrified bustle of injured patients fleeing for their lives. The building shook again, dust falling from the ceiling, and Urey squinted as he continued to wrestle with his thrashing patient.

A knee grazed the doctor’s locked jaw, barely avoided at the last moment by a quick snap of his head. With another curse, he shoved the leg back down and pinned it with his own knee, feeling a bit like a lizard as he struggled to keep his balance and perform complicated surgery simultaneously. He lost his grip on his patient’s arm once again, and was nearly clocked in the face. Again.

The guy only had three limbs, how was he so goddamn squirrely?

Before the rampant arm could come for another attack, a bandaged hand wrapped around the wrist and forced it down with perhaps a bit more force than entirely necessary.

Urey looked up and was met by obsidian eyes.

“Sit down you idiot!”

His verbal filter was completely gone at the moment.

“You need all the hands you can get right now,” Roy argued, meeting Urey’s eyes with an even stare.

And  _ Goddammit  _ he was right. The majority of their staff was in transit, helping the walking wounded away from the death trap this area had become. Only a few of them were left, helping the remaining wounded to stagger away with at least somewhat decently cared for injuries and directions to a new safe house.

There was more than one problem, but the biggest was that there were still wounded coming in even as they all attempted to leave, hence Urey’s rushed triage with far less assistants than he really needed.

The only reason Roy was still around was because they hadn’t managed to get his wounds dressed for transit; the burns making him more susceptible to infection and thus needing more protection than the general wounded individual.

“Only use your forearm to hold him down,” Urey finally instructed, seething under his skin for relenting to the idiot. “Tear open your skin graft, and the regrafting and stitches will be the least of your issues. I will personally beat you to death with your thick skull, is that clear?”

Roy’s bewildered expression clearly emphasized what he thought of  _ that  _ statement -something along the lines of a dubious ‘I don’t think that’s physically possible’. However, to his credit, the alchemist didn’t say anything other than a muttered “Yes sir” before pressing his less injured forearm to the patient’s twitching shoulders.

“Use your right arm and I’ll let Sara turn you into a doorknob,” Urey muttered a final warning before turning his entire attention to the patient, throwing a caustic “Damn you Mustang” at him as a last word.

Roy may have muttered a childish “Uncalled for,” under his breath, but Urey ignored it and turned his attention to the missing limb that was losing a concerning amount of blood.

Roy stayed silent and allowed the doctor to work, focusing on keeping the Ishvalan man pinned to the table with as little movement as possible.

The patient was a handsome looking man, if a bit lankier than the average Ishvalan. He had tattoos spanning up his left arm, a mixture of silver and blue that looked a bit like alchemy, but with an odd language and aspect that Roy had never seen before. Any hopes he had of getting a clear look at the tattoos, however, were completely crushed between the thick layer of sand and blood covering his skin and the man’s continuous thrashing. Letting his eyes drift to the stump and pouring blood that Urey was desperately trying to staunch, Roy wondered if the other arm had had similar markings.

He eyed the man’s face and resolved to ask him about it when he was somewhat recovered.

In a show of great strength (or desperation) the Ishvalan’s shoulders reared off of the table. Roy bore down on the man’s shoulder with all of his weight and considered just sitting on him instead.

Urey’s knee shifted on his thigh, and the knee managed to jerk free and throw a wild jab at Roy. The alchemist grunted loudly and nearly lost his grip on the man completely before he threw his own leg onto the table, climbing on top of it so he could splay his knees across both of the man’s thighs and retain pressure on his shoulders. A heavy sheen of sweat was on his brow, and he bit his lip tightly,

“Roy?” Urey prompted, concern for his injured helper infiltrating his concentration even as he once again turned to the patient’s shoulder.

“Fine,” the alchemist grunted lowly. “His knee just skimmed my side a bit.”

The position Roy had taken up couldn’t be comfortable for his grafted side and tightened skin either. Ignoring his concern, Urey once again threw himself into his triage with abandon.

The thrashing grew weaker by the second and was nearly nonexistent when Sara called out, “Urey! Critical patient!” Urey bit his lip, only allowing himself to deliberate for a moment before he stepped back from his own patient.

Roy jumped. “What are you doing? He’s still bleeding!” He tried to staunch the wound but only succeeded in nearly getting thrown in renewed struggle. “Urey! He’s still alive!”

“No. His body is just taking a while to realize that it’s already dead.” Urey turned away, directing his attention at the man under Sara’s attention.

“Urey!” Roy called, desperation coloring his tone.

The doctor hesitated. “He’s lost too much blood. Coupled with the shock, there’s nothing more I can do for him. There are other patients with a better chance of survival. We have to let him go.”

“Use my blood then! You can’t just give up Urey!”

He whirled on his heels. “Are you insane?! One more critically wounded patient and you would have been in the same exact boat as him! You are goddamn lucky you survived, and the last thing your body needs right now is to be drained of more blood. You soldiers have certain things you have to do on the battlefield, well this is ours. We have to choose. It fucking  _ sucks  _ but that’s the way life is. So shut up, comfort him, and if it looks like he’s suffering, put a  _ goddamn  _ bullet in his head like you were trained to do.”

He ignored the shocked look on the soldier’s face and went to Sara’s side. She gave him a disapproving look, letting him know exactly how she felt about his thoughtless words, but said nothing on the matter.

She didn’t need to.

Urey let his eyes drift over the tattoos on the patient’s right arm and tried not to puke. There was a time and a place, and this was neither.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I was actually planning to put a lot more in, but then the chapter grew and I didn't want it to be a monster of a chapter. Hope you guys enjoyed it!  
> By the way: I stole the name Grif from a series called Red vs Blue. I guess you could say this is a cameo, except the Grif in the show is a lot different from this one.


	5. Backs in the Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you get when you put an injured Ishvalan warrior and a burned State Alchemist in the same room together? Not a badass fight, that's for sure.

Roy was avoiding all eye contact like it was the plague.

He was also incurably inquisitive, his gaze sweeping across the house and following the occupants’ scramble with an analytical eye.

This, inevitably, led to his eyes darting from window to door to patient to floor in the matter of milliseconds, resembling a hyperactive bird with a drug addiction.

Sara sighed and wished she was back home with Winry. She would have loved that comparison.

“Roy, I’ll be the first to say that what Urey said was completely inappropriate,” Sara finally conceded, sacrificing the relative peace of bandaging a noncritical patient for her friend’s own peace of mind. “And I’m sure he’s well aware of my disapproval on the matter.” He didn’t make eye contact, but Roy’s head lifted, so at least she knew he was listening. “But you have to understand it’s not his fault. Urey had to make a call, and he decided the numbers weighed in someone else’s favor. If we could have our way, no one would get abandoned on the table like that. We just can’t.”

The sound of a gunshot still rung in the recesses of Sara’s mind.

“And sometimes the best thing we can offer is something quicker than the suffering.” The words sounded weak, even to her own ears. “Urey was callous. But he wasn’t wrong. Please don’t be mad at him for that.”

“I’m not mad at Urey,” Roy muttered, sounding dejected and at least a little bit sulky. Sara barely restrained a skeptical look. “I’m not,” he reaffirmed. He still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Well,” Sara huffed, pulling the edge of the bandage tight around Roy’s arm and clasping it into place, “you’re mad at something. Trauma isn’t something you can just walk off, Roy. Sometimes you have to let yourself feel the ugly emotions that come with it. You’re absolutely shit at acknowledging such emotions even exist.”

Roy didn’t offer up a snarky response like she hoped. “I’m not mad at Urey,” he repeated sullenly. 

Miraculously, Sara didn’t even have to prompt him for an elaboration. “I’m mad at myself. I just- I just feel so  _ useless _ right now. I’m not a medic. Even the basic field triage I know is completely impossible because I can’t even  _ move my hands _ .

“And Urey was right. The only thing I’m good for is putting a gun to a helpless man’s head and pulling the trigger. The worst part is that society would call me a hero for it.

Roy laughed. “A  _ hero _ . Because he was an Ishvalan dissident, and I was just serving my country.”

“Roy,” Sara said sadly. She couldn’t offer any more than a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, any possible words lost on her in the face of his anger.

Later she would tell him that he couldn’t blame himself for what happened to the Ishvalan patient. She would tell him it was a decision made by Urey and Sara, and their decision was one forced by a war so brutal that none of them could control. What he did with his alchemy was something different;  _ wrong _ and  _ cruel  _ in all the worst ways but at the same time a cruelty driven by  _ more  _ than his own actions. But this was one thing he couldn’t flagellate himself with. She wouldn’t let him.

For now, she kept her lips pursed and helped his arm into the sling.

______________________________________________________________________________

He was staring, and well aware of the fact that he was staring, but he didn’t care, and to be honest he doubted the recipient cared either. Well, maybe he would care if he was conscious, but the man was currently doing a good impression of a mound of used bandages, so Roy didn’t think he would notice a pair of eyes on him.

It was just… the man’s tattoos on his arm were so similar to the other Ishvalan’s.  _ The one he murdered.  _ No other Ishvalans had had them, none that Roy had seen. And they were so similar to alchemy but  _ not  _ at the same time and Roy was convinced he saw the alchemic symbol for deconstruction floating in several places on the man’s skin but he couldn’t ask because the guy was unconscious.

Even if he were conscious and lucid, Roy still wouldn’t ask.

The man he murdered had those same tattoos. That same facial structure.

The Ishvalan shifted, pulling Roy from his spiralling thoughts. He watched carefully to confirm if he was really conscious rather than restless but blissfully unconscious. He really hoped the man remained unaware for a while longer.

Urey and Sara were finishing up the last of the patients and they really needed to get out of here before Kimblee arrived. Unnecessary distraction wasn’t what they needed right now. Despite the lull in explosions, Roy could feel it in his gut. Kimblee was close.

“Doctor, you and your wife should get out of here.”

Roy nearly laughed at the young man that suggested it. They weren’t going anywhere until everyone else was safe.

Which, he resolved once again, meant he wasn’t going anywhere yet either. The Rockbells had already tried to foist him off on someone else, but a fever-fueled tantrum and the arrival of several more patients negated the matter rather quickly.

So here he was, watching the unconscious man and wishing he could physically drag the two doctors out of the building.

Despite Roy’s prayers (or maybe  _ because  _ of them because there was no reason for any God to grant him a single wish after what he had done), the Ishvalan continued to stir from his slumber, muttering confused words under his breath as he woke into the pain that most likely enveloped him.

“He’s awake,” one of the other medics realized.

Sara was by his side in an instant. “Don’t move or you’ll open up your wounds.” Then she was calling for Urey, and he was by the Ishvalan’s side as well.

A cart was called for, and Paul ran outside to drag the makeshift wheelbarrow into the house. The kid should have left half an hour ago, but he was just as stubborn as the Rockbells. At least, hopefully, escorting the Ishvalan will lead him away from Kimblee’s path of destruction.

Motion from the Ishvalan drew Roy’s attention back to him as he lifted his tattooed limb in the air.

“Brother’s tattoos?”

Something heavy dropped in Roy’s gut.

“You’re alive. Brother you’ve made it.”

A gunshot bounced around in Roy’s skull.

And then the Ishvalan screamed. “WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!”

Urey turned on his heel, taking in the writhing Ishvalan with a glance before calling for sedatives.

“There aren’t any more!”

Roy had watched Sara use the last of it on a boy with a damaged chest.

“We used them all up!”

Urey turned to the cupboard. “There has to be more. He can’t stand this movement right now!” The two doctors were shoving empty bottles, defective tools and antiseptic aside.

“State alchemists…”

Roy watched the Ishvalan rise to his feet.

“Amestrians…”

His shaking hand wrapped around a scalpel in a white knuckled grip.

“You will pay.”

Roy was frozen, watching him sway unsteadily. State alchemists… State alchemists…

Murderers.

“All of you will pay.”

“Doctor Rockbell!” Someone screamed.

Urey threw his arms around Sara. She screamed.

_ No. _

_ No no no no no no. _

State Alchemists were murderers.

Roy Mustang was a State Alchemist.

Roy Mustang was the one who killed this man’s brother.

The Rockbells saved Roy Mustang’s life. And they saved this Ishvalan man’s life.

_ No! _

Roy wasn’t sure exactly what he yelled as he barrelled into the man; for all he knew it could have been that shitty love poem he wrote for Riza when he was sixteen and stupid.

He crashed into the Ishvalan with the grace of a train, sending them both slamming into groaning heaps on the ground. He was convinced he had torn open his chest. If he looked down, he would have the dubious pleasure of becoming acquainted with his insides.

He had barely forced his eyes open when the Ishvalan decided to introduce his arm to Roy’s stomach. The air flew from his lungs in a soft and anticlimactic  _ whoosh _ that didn’t support his body’s dramatic reaction of gagging on bile.

Only an ingrained sense of  _ oh shit _ allowed for him to roll to the side to avoid another hit and then send his foot lashing out to jab satisfyingly into a mound of flesh.

This time, Roy had the presence of mind to block the wild elbow and attempt to wrestle his opponent’s wild limbs into the floor.

The struggle was utterly pathetic. One of the participants was a healing burn victim, and the other newly arrived from the battlefield and currently more bandages than man.

The fact that Roy was the one wheezing on the ground at its conclusion was more than a small blow to his pride. Distantly, he was aware of the other patients and medics finally springing forward to restrain the distressed Ishvalan, but it all faded to the background in favor of the renewed ache in his limbs. And torso. And everywhere.

Ow.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Urey had to force his tense limbs to loosen from his protective hold on Sara. When they finally did, his leaden arms dropped to his side, his knees going weak. It was a miracle he kept his feet.

He followed Sara’s horrified stare down to the Ishvalan man being held down by his brethren. He was wailing in absolute agony, fighting to every inch of his life. Interspersed in the unintelligible cries were desperate shouts for his brother.

The adrenaline, thankfully, only lasted for a few seconds more.

It felt like years.

The man collapsed into uneasy unconsciousness, groaning and muttering still escaping into the unnatural silence.

It took a rather embarrassingly long time for Urey to remember the other half of the injured scuffle.

“Roy?” The man hadn’t moved from where the Ishvalan had left him, splayed on the ground with his hands gently cradling his torso. Roy was grimacing, teeth bared, and scowling up at the ceiling as if it had been the one to throw him unceremoniously to the ground. “You alright kid?”

Urey couldn’t make his knees stop shaking enough to walk the two steps to Roy’s side.

His only response was a deep-throated groan.

Sara had already made her way over and was carefully pulling him into a sitting position, her face looking far too pale and her hands shaking minutely.

“Nothing appears torn,” she said, her voice steady but quieter than usual. “I don’t know how, but somehow you survived that stunt only a little worse for wear.”

Roy feigned a hurt look, hovering his left hand over his heart dramatically. “Stunt? That wasn’t a stunt. That was a heroic sacrifice. I deserve a damn medal for that little ‘stunt’.”

Sara grinned. “The only metal you’re going to get is a metal slab for your tagged corpse to lay on if you keep going at this rate.”

“Morbid,” Roy commented.

Urey snorted unwillingly. “Alright,” he chuckled, leaning down to take Roy’s shirt and arm in his hands. “Let’s get you up.”

Roy groaned and made an aborted attempt to sit up before falling heavily back on his ass. “You know, I really wouldn’t mind those extra painkillers I just earned.”

Urey shrugged off the guilt that they  _ couldn’t _ give him something to relieve the pain. Not until they made it to the other ‘hospital’. “I’m sure you would like that,” he acknowledged dryly, hauling the soldier to his feet and helping him limp to the nearest cot.

“You’re cruel,” Roy pouted. He then turned hopefully to Sara. “How about it Mrs. Rockbell? Spare a kiss for a wounded soldier boy?”

She snorted and punched his less injured shoulder gently. “Don’t be a brat.”

Urey managed a small smile. That damn ‘soldier boy’ was far too aware of the power of the words.

Sighing, he turned to look at the unconscious Ishvalan man lying on the floor and realized they had gained a bit of an audience from the remaining people in the shelter.

The building shook, and the young child once again started wailing.

The Ishvalan, from what Urey could see, was in no life threatening danger from his scuffle with Roy. He would at least survive the trip to the new hospital.

“Alright,” Urey said. “We need to move. Help someone if you aren’t very injured. Paul, you’re in charge of this man’s cart. Keith, watch and make sure he doesn’t aggravate his wounds if he wakes on the trip.”

The last of the silence dissipated as movement once again erupted in the house. Paul approached his assignment with trepidation, but to his credit he didn’t let it hold him up for long.

Urey turned a careful eye on Roy, noting the thick sheen of sweat on his brow and his flushed skin. His eyes looked a bit dull, a major difference from even a few minutes ago.

They couldn’t keep putting this off. As soon as they made it to the next hospital, Urey was going to do what needed to be done to save Roy’s life, even if it meant strapping the man down to do it.

In any case, he was in no condition to walk. Hesitant as he was to put any stress on Roy’s body, a cart would be the ideal travel method for the alchemist.

Turning to the door to get a cart, Urey was pleasantly surprised to nearly trip over the cart that had not been there mere seconds ago.

An Ishvalan boy, with his one-eyed grandma peering over his shoulder,stood beside the cart hesitantly.

“Is this for Roy?” Urey asked gently.

The boy nodded rapidly. “I can help carry him too,” he offered. Urey was honestly taken aback by the genuine care in the boy’s voice. It wasn’t that the other Ishvalans had mistreated Roy (at least not most of them), but nearly all interactions the State Alchemist had had with another Ishvalan was brief and laden in fear or dislike.

Offering to do a kindness for the Flame Alchemist was… well, unexpected, to say the least.

The boy seemed to realize the reason for Urey’s confusion. “Both you and Mrs. Rockbell saved my life. He just saved yours. This is the least I can do for him.”

Urey looked back at Roy and saw he was swaying unsteadily in his seat, his eyes drooping in a sudden exhaustion that was a bit concerning. Dammit, Urey wished he was awake enough to see this. It would probably do wonders for the self-flagellation and guilt the alchemist was drowning in.

Instead, the doctor turned back to the boy and smiled kindly. “Thank you for this. You probably shouldn’t burden yourself with a cart with your injuries, but if you would like to walk alongside and make sure he’s okay, it would be much appreciated.”

The boy smiled and nodded amiably. “Of course.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If Roy had to describe the desert in one word, he would call it fuzzy.

Well, if he were more coherent, then possibly he would call it hell, but right now the description doesn’t seem quite right.

It was fuzzy in a way different than a dog’s coat or Madam Christmas’s fur jacket.

It was fuzzy in the eyes as heat waves took away the sharp edges of buildings and people and made everything indistinct in a way that made you question reality. There was a black ring around Roy’s vision that made it even harder to focus, and he wondered if the spots were normal.

It was fuzzy in the ears as explosions and shouting and gunfire took a backseat to the ringing in his ears, a voice barely penetrating through the fog but becoming indistinct as if went.

It was fuzzy in the way that the coarse, abrasive sand was fuzzy, slicing his skin open and stinging his eyes.

“-still with me Roy?”

A silly question, really. The innocent boy named Roy died the very first day he burned an entire town to dust.

“How’s he doing?”

“Not good. He’s lost most of his coherency.”

“We’re almost there.”

“Should I take over pulling for a bit?”

“Are you kidding me, Urey? You came this close to breaking your ankle a few minutes ago.”

“You know what, Sara?”

Urey had this petulant look on his face that was incredibly endearing. He was so serious most of the time. Roy forced his mouth to curl a bit, his entire face numb in a way that should have been concerning, and tried to laugh. The most he managed was a chuff, but it was enough to catch Urey’s attention.

The doctor leaned closer to Roy, bracing himself on the cart as he walked.

“Roy? Are you awake now?”

He nodded tiredly.

“You have a bit of a fever and are suffering from infection. We’re traveling to another medical station right now. We’re going to have to operate as soon as we get there.” Roy blinked sleepily. “I’m not sure how much of this you’ll remember, but when you wake up, I don’t want you to be scared, alright? Sara and I will be there right beside you the whole time.”

There was something wrong with that.

“Not scared,” Roy protested. “‘m a State Alchemist. Can’t be scared.”

Urey’s face scrunched up at that, his lips pursing and his eyebrows drawing together.

Whatever was upsetting him, he didn’t voice.

Instead, he just said, “You’re going to be alright. Just get some rest right now.”

Rest. Rest sounded nice right about now...

…

He was being moved, his arm thrown around someone’s shoulder, the skin around his chest pulling tight. He groaned in protest and heard quiet apologies that didn’t quite register beyond the tone.

The world spun itself in a new direction as his feet were pulled beneath him and he grabbed at the first thing he could, something that may have been a shoulder.

“Can you walk, Roy? Just a few steps, yeah, that’s it. Nice job, Roy.”

The world threw itself upside down again and everything blanked except for the revolutions going on in his head. He vaguely became aware of something soft under his head, and something hard but malleable clenched between his teeth.

His eyes blinked open, flinching against the bright light before locking on Sara beside his head.

Gentle fingers carded through his hair. “We don’t have any sedatives, Roy,” Sara told him softly. “Bite down as hard as you need, alright?” She squeezed his hand. “This will be over soon, I promise.”

His eyes slipped closed, and he pretended he wasn’t aware of the sharp blade sliding into his arm.

It was mere seconds- hours- seconds before he blacked out and lost consciousness for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIVVVVVEEEEE!!!! I am so sorry for the long wait everyone! Take all of the excuses you've heard from other authors and insert here because I could probably list all of them (right now I'm blaming some colorful, gay space marines). I tried something new with the time lapses so let me know if you like them. I would also like to thank all of you who left comments. Going through and reading them gives me new life I swear.  
> Also, little disclaimer that I have no medical knowledge and have no idea if infection can cause a serious fever like that that fast. Research is hard people. If anyone knows and would like to let me know, I wouldn't mind the correction (even if I probably won't correct it in the story itself).  
> Yes, the Rockbells are alive! Yay! Are they going to stay alive? I guess our new explosive guest star is going to have a say in that next chapter.  
> For all of you looking for the Roy, Ed, and Al interactions, don't lose hope. It's coming in like, two chapters and let me tell you I have plans. Anyway, please comment, like, all of that jazz if you liked this chapter. Peace out y'all!


	6. A New Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But what’s it for?”  
> “Nothing much,” Roy chuckled. “Just a bit of superstitious protection charms.”  
> “Protection? Do you think something bad-” he cut himself off and shot a guilty glance at Roy’s missing hand, “-worse,” he corrected, “is going to happen? Why?”  
> Roy thought of Kimblee’s massive explosions shaking the entire block and the ominous quiet that filled the air around them. “It’s nothing. Just paranoia."

When Roy woke, it was slowly. He became aware of everything in increments, starting with the constant ache of his entire body and moving outward until he could hear conversations happening just outside of his comprehension.

Licking his lips did nothing to sate the annoying dryness of his mouth, his saliva nonexistent in the desert that was his throat. When no water was immediately forthcoming, Roy forced his eyes open, determined to quench this horrible thirst.

Sara noticed him before he managed to focus on anything beyond the spots dancing in his vision, moving close enough that Roy could see the grin splitting her mouth.

“Hey, Roy,” she greeted softly. “I’m glad to see you awake. Want some water?”

Sara Rockbell was a literal goddess. Roy nodded with all the energy he could manage, his neck protesting at the action and a headache making itself more well known at the front of his skull.

He couldn’t really bring himself to care as Sara helped him into a sitting position and tipped a water bottle to his lips, allowing it to trickle into his mouth and relieve his thirst as if it was the nectar of a God.

It was only after several minutes of Sara’s careful distribution of small increments of water that Roy felt like his throat wasn’t on fire. He nodded gratefully to her as she settled more permanently at his side.

“How are you feeling?” She asked gently.

Roy blinked around at the unfamiliar surroundings and tried to incorporate into his current worldview the image of the tattooed Ishvalan reluctantly holding a small child in his arms with an angry scowl darkening his features. Considering the last Roy remembered seeing of the man was their embarrassing struggle on the floor of a sandy hut, the image didn’t really compute.

“Um,” Roy managed finally, feeling rather incoherent even as he answered, “Confused?”

Sara just laughed. “I’m not really surprised. You’ve been feverish for a couple of days now. It appears to have broken though, so I think you’re in the clear.”

“I don’t… remember being feverish?” Roy protested meekly.

“I think you should count that as a blessing,” she chuckled, a knowing glint in her eye that honestly terrified the poor alchemist. “There were a few… interactions… that might be a bit damaging to your pride.”

_ Oh no. _

“What did I do?” Roy asked hesitantly, unsure if he actually wanted to know or not.

She patted his foot consolingly. “I won’t burden your poor ego with the details.”

It only somewhat felt like a mercy.

Her smile lost its sharp, evil edges and dropped into something softer. “How’s your arm feeling?”

His arm?

It took Roy several embarrassingly long breaths to comprehend what she could possibly be talking about. Eventually, as if drawn by a magnet, his gaze rested on the bandaged limb resting in its usual place on his abdomen. There was an ache in his bones that hadn’t been there before, but if he wasn’t able to see the stump ending perhaps an entire foot before it was supposed to, he never would have guessed that the limb was missing in the first place.

It was surreal, truly. Roy could swear the arm was still there, but his eyes were still telling him differently and he honestly felt like he was living in two different realities simultaneously. Schrodinger's right arm.

“Roy?” Sara prodded gently, a hint of concern breaking past her professional mask.

“Think my brain’s in shock, to be honest,” he managed to reason. God, he felt like he should be freaking out and shouting or crying or at least stoically biting his lip and pretending he wasn’t on the verge of tears. But there was none of that.

There was just a bandaged arm that ended far sooner than it should have.

Sara’s face moved between the locked gaze he had on the limb. “Hey,” she said softly, pulling his attention away from the dull ache in his bone. “It’s going to be alright. I promise.”

Roy swallowed. “Alright.”

Deciding his attention was better focused elsewhere- _ anywhere else _ \- he focused one again on the tattooed Ishvalan, who had gladly relinquished the child back to its returned mother and was currently staring at his tattooed right arm with a deeply pensive look on his face.

Roy gestured with his head in his general direction. “Is he…” he hesitated, looking for a description that was a bit more diplomatic than  _ not murderously furious anymore _ , “...safe?” He finished weakly. The look Sara gave Roy, equal parts disappointment and exasperation, told him that the diplomacy had failed. Badly.

“He woke again not long after we arrived here.” She told him. “He isn’t altogether happy that there are Amestrians here, and he’s in mourning for his brother, but he agreed to maintain the peace for as long as he’s staying here.”

“Does he…” he swallowed, “Does he know who killed-”

“We told him the truth. He died from blood loss. The only one at fault for his brother’s death is the one that dismembered his arm.”

“That’s not the whole truth.”

“It’s enough. He’s accepted it.” Sara patted Roy’s arm consolingly. “I have to check up on some of the other patients now. Will you be alright?”

“Yeah.”

With a soft smile, she started moving away. She made it less than a step before freezing and returning to his side. “We have a couple of new patients. They’re all victims of the latest alchemical attack. You should… keep it quiet that you’re an alchemist. Just to be safe.”

He nodded. “Understood. No arrays for me.” This seemed to ease some of the tension in her shoulders. She shot him another quick smile before leaving his bedside.

Roy counted to thirty before he quietly called Paul over. The boy approached in his timid way, not looking quite relieved to be the center of a State Alchemist’s attention, but he didn’t look like he was about to bolt either so Roy called it a win.

“Paul, is there any way that you could get me a spare bandage and some sort of pen or ink?”

The question clearly threw the boy off. It took him several long moments to master his bemusement enough to reply. “Bandages and ink? If you want to write something down, I might be able to track down some paper or something. You don’t have to use bandages.”

Roy threw on his most winning smile. It was far more lackluster than his regular dashing grins; he could feel the exhaustion dragging the corners of his lips down. Putting a bit more energy into it, he leaned forward so their conversation could be kept at least somewhat private. “Bandages would work better, actually. I’m hoping to wrap it around my hand when I’m done.” He waved his left hand to clarify the point.

Paul frowned. “I guess I can do that,” he said hesitantly. “But what’s it for?”

“Nothing much,” Roy chuckled. “Just a bit of superstitious protection charms.”

“Protection? Do you think something bad-” he cut himself off and shot a guilty glance at Roy’s missing hand, “-worse,” he corrected, “is going to happen? Why?”

Roy thought of Kimblee’s massive explosions shaking the entire block and the ominous quiet that filled the air around them. “It’s nothing. Just paranoia. But still, if you wouldn’t mind…”

The boy nodded again. “Alright. I’ll be right back.” He scampered away, going for a table that was burdened by far too much supplies.

In mere seconds, he was back, helpfully lying the bandage cloth flat on the bed near Roy’s left hand and weighing it down with red stones. He helped Roy into a sitting position before giving him the ink pen, even going so far as to help him curl his still-aching fingers around it.

Thanking him, Roy started the arduous work of sketching a careful circle with very little dexterity. It would take him a while, but he could do this.

Now he just needed to convince Keith to lend him his lighter for a bit.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If there was one thing the war had taught him, it was compartmentalization. More accurately, it was shoving things to the back of his mind with a “For Later Contemplation” note stuck to the side.

Roy knew that Sara was worried about him. According to her, he wasn’t dealing with the loss of his arm so much as ignoring it, which was rather easy to do with the sling that could, conceivably, with a little bit of imagination, be hiding an entire arm instead of just a small stump.

Admittedly, not the most healthy way to deal with trauma, but in truth, Roy knew he couldn’t spare the time to flip out.

Later, he promised himself. Later, once Kimblee was dealt with.

Roy bolted to his feet, interrupting Sara’s quiet therapy on his shoulder. She rises with him to keep the wound from tearing, a startled sound escaping her lips. “Roy, what’s wrong?” He ignored her in favor of leaning out of the window, peering through the waves of heat to a silhouette in the near distance.

“What is it?” She prompted, not able to find Roy’s focus.

“Trouble,” Roy murmured, prying his white-knuckled grip from the windowsill and leaning back. He bit his lip briefly and shot a glance at Sara before making up his mind with a decisive nod. “Sara, get Urey, and stay inside,” Roy commanded, rushing away from her and shrugging the sling back on in a practiced motion. “Make sure everyone is ready to move.”

“Roy, what the hell are you talking about?”

Roy paused briefly. His eyes flickered towards the tattooed Ishvalan, who’s watching the commotion with analytical eyes.

He met the Ishvalan’s eyes and simply said, “Kimblee.”

Sara startled and the Ishvalan’s eyes grew wide.

“This isn’t his sector,” Roy elaborated. “Whatever he’s here for, it isn’t good news.”

He pulled away from his small audience and strode for the door, putting all of the fake confidence he could into his walk. Out in open space, far enough away from the building to provide some protection for the occupants, he stopped and glared up at the black-haired man on the roof.

Kimblee was a showman, and he absolutely loved having an audience. He was also incurably afflicted with curiosity, as all alchemists were. Between the two, it would hopefully provide a deterrent for him just blowing the whole building sky high.

The figure waved to Roy and then disappeared off the roof. Roy flicked the lighter in his pocket nervously and refrained from looking back where he could feel several eyes watching.

He spared a moment to question what he would do if this went as far south as he was expecting and came up blank.

“Well well, if it isn’t the Flame Alchemist,” Kimblee’s voice declared, ringing through the courtyard as he swaggered into the clearing. “Rumor has it you died in an explosion about a month ago.”

Roy shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring the pull on his skin from the movement and keeping his twitching hand in his pocket. “I walked it off.”

“Did you now?” Kimblee chuckled, a manic grin spread across his face. “The brass will be  _ happy _ about that. You know, they were getting worried. After all, no one can create the miles of wanton destruction with the same ease that you can.” He seemed to delight in rubbing that fact in Roy’s face, watching every twitch with the eyes of a hawk for any distress, like a predator stalking its prey.

Refusing to be a victim, the Flame Alchemist kept his expression neutral, if a bit annoyed. “What are you doing out here, Kimblee? There’s no one out here for miles.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Unless if you were ordered to find me…”

The subtle jab worked, and Kimblee scowled at the thought of being used as a bloodhound to find the ‘more destructive alchemist’.

With a shrug, the scowl turned to a look of fabricated bewilderment. “Orders from General Grand. Apparently there’s a couple of doctors out here helping Ishvalans.” Roy tensed and Kimblee turned a knowing eye on Roy, the predatory glint returning. “They’re named Rockbell. Don’t supposed you’ve heard of them?”

“Can’t say I have,” the lie, thankfully, sounded smooth as silk. “Why are you looking for them? What’s it matter if they help Ishvalans alongside Amestrians?”

“What’s it matter?” Kimblee laughed. “Where do you suppose those Ishvalans go once they’re all patched up? Right back to killing Amestrians, that’s where. They’re traitors… dissidents.” He once again turned a sharp eye on Roy, a smirk punctuating every word. “You sure you haven’t seen them?”

“Positive.”

“Really.” It wasn’t a question. “Because those are some pretty nasty burns you have there. You would need some help to survive those.” His eyes narrowed as he went in for the kill, and in his pocket Roy flicked the lighter open so his thumb rested lightly on the trigger. The smile grew malignant. “You should thank the Rockbells for saving your pretty face. It would have been a shame for you to lose it.”

He looked past Roy to the house behind him. “You hear that Mr. and Mrs. Rockbell? The Flame Alchemist gives his thanks.”

Kimblee moved to clap and Roy pulled the lighter out of his pocket, already bringing a flame to the call of the array drawn on his bandaged hand.

An explosion shook the very earth and fire lit up the sky.

What happened next was a blur. Vaguely, Roy could recall the Crimson Alchemist diving out of the way of Roy’s flames, his manic smile illuminated by the red light. He remembered the shaking of the earth sending him to his knees, feeling the sand grind into his pants even as he directed all of his attention on the state alchemist before him.

There was lots of light, fire and combustions breaking the silence of twilight and the final blow struck as someone snuck up behind Kimblee, more bandages than man but alchemic lightning breaking the red flames—

The Ishvalan man.

Roy shot to a sitting position and instantly regretted it, feeling his scars pull and the exhaustion in every bone protest loudly.

Someone’s firm hand rested on his back, propping him upright and relieving some of the pressure on his still-healing abdomen. Urey’s gentle voice carried through the hazy fog blurring Roy’s mind. “Stay calm Roy. Everything’s alright.”

Roy heaved a giant breath in, hoping to cool the hot sweat on his forehead. He couldn’t see Urey’s face in the dark, but the man’s presence was a balm all the same.

After several more controlled breaths, Roy felt composed enough to ask, “What happened?”

“You were a heroic idiot is what happened,” Urey answered, sounding fondly annoyed at his most troublesome patient.

“Kimblee…”

“Dead.” Urey sounded a bit more satisfied than Roy would have ever expected from the doctor, but then again, Kimblee did threaten the both of them.

Then the implications behind Urey’s words hit Roy like an Armstrong.

Kimblee was dead. Kimblee, on a state-sanctioned mission, was dead. Roy killed him.

Or… wait. Not quite. Roy remembered Kimblee’s blast slamming into Roy, knocking him to the ground with something burning in his ribs. The Ishvalan leaping out of the smoke to snare the alchemist’s arm, an alchemical discharge lighting up the courtyard before blood splattered across the ground and suddenly Kimblee had the same amount of arms Roy had. And then… a fireball to the face.

Oh God, he did that. He did that to a comrade. He remembered Kimblee’s cries of pain, the sheer agony of having his skin melted off breaking any of the composure the Crimson Alchemist usually had. He remembered the tattooed Ishvalan kneeling beside the still alive Kimblee and putting an almost gentle hand on the disfigured face.

In the end, it was the Ishvalan to land the final blow. It was a mercy at that point.

The pail was in front of Roy’s face before he realized it. The next moment, he was vomiting up his entire stomach, Kimblee’s destroyed face burning behind his eyes.

“It’s okay, Roy.” Vaguely, Roy became aware of someone rubbing his back gently, keeping his overly long hair out of his eyes as he choked. “Let it out. It’s going to be okay.”

_____________________________________________________________________

Unsurprisingly, Sara was awake when Urey returned to the room they were using as a bedroom. Her bright eyes glinted from the light of the moon as she turned on her side to face him. “How is he?” She asked.

Urey ran a tired hand through his hair and didn’t — couldn’t — reply. He collapsed onto the mat that had been their bed for almost a year now and tried to formulate some sort of reply more adequate than ‘bad’. Sara, seeming to sense what he needed, put her back to him before sliding back as close to his chest as she could get. He circled her in his arms and buried his face in her hair.

They laid like that, absolutely silent, for a long time. But Urey could feel Sara’s breath against his chest and knew that she was just as likely to be able to fall asleep as he was.

Finally, Urey felt he could break the silence, set loose the thoughts crowing in his skull.

“Sarah?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think…” he hesitated, because they have never considered this before. Not seriously. “Do you think we should go home?”

For a long moment she remained silent, but Urey was okay with that. He understood. Tonight was a night where the right words were just… impossible to find.

“Yeah… yeah, I think we should.”

Urey tightened his death grip on her hand and buried his face even further into her sandy hair. “I mean, we’ve- we’ve done what we can and- and the war’s finally winding down and…”

“...and Winry must be getting so big,” she finished wistfully.

“Yeah.”

Why did it feel like such an excuse?

Neither of them spoke after than, simply feeling the words’ impressions left on the air.

Sara turned in his arms to face him, their noses inches away from each other. “Urey? Let’s go home.”

He sighed in relief. “Okay.”

Sarah bit her lip. Urey knew that look well enough by now. “What’s wrong?”

“What about Roy?”

_ Roy.  _ “What about him?” What could they do for someone so immeasurably broken?

“He doesn’t have anywhere to go.” An almost manic look appeared in her eye. “Urey, if he goes back to the military, they’ll probably court martial him for dereliction of duty, even if they don’t find out about what happened to Kimblee.” Her hand was gripping his shoulder, nails digging into his skin to the point of pain, but all Urey could feel was the cold gripping his bones.

Urey’s jaw clenched. “Best case scenario, he’s sent back to that godforsaken State Alchemist program and forced to kill again.”

“I don’t want the military to destroy him.”

“You’re right. He doesn’t deserve that.” He frowned, glaring at the ceiling as if the stars would give answers on why such a young and bright kid was already so lost. “His only friends are in the military, and all of his funds are provided by the state. And his injuries are so severe… he wouldn’t make it a week before dying of infection or something.”

Sarah shifted, and then said in a decisive tone, “Looks like he’ll just have to come home with us then.”

Urey started in surprise, a short laugh bursting from his lips. “Are you serious?”

She was definitely serious.

He leaned back, once again considering the ceiling. “Bring him back to Resembool, huh?”

“He’ll need several months of therapy to recover from his wounds,” Sarah mentioned in a purely innocent voice.

“Not to mention automail for his right hand…” Urey added just as innocently.

“And that’s even more time for recuperation…”

“I’m sure Trisha wouldn’t mind another helping hand around the house. Those two rambunctious kids of hers could use an extra pair of eyes on them.”

“Aren’t they both into alchemy too…?”

Urey laughed. “I’m not sure Trisha would appreciate us for introducing her children to an pyromaniac alchemist.”

“Roy’s responsible,” Sarah protested, hitting Urey lightly on the shoulder. “I’m sure it would be safer for them to have an actual teacher instead of just learning from books.”

He snorted, but didn’t disagree.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the distant crackling of the campfire a comforting reminder they weren’t completely alone in the endless expanse of desert.

Sarah broke the silence first with an impish “Soooo…?” that meant she already knew his answer.

“Yeah. Let’s bring him home with us.”

A breath puffed against his ear, startlingly close, and then Sarah’s lips brushed Urey’s. He felt a smile creasing her mouth, and then she leaned in further.

When they pulled away, Sarah’s voice stayed soft, for his ears only. “You’re an amazing person, Urey. I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS ARE SO AMAZING!!! Thank you for sticking with me despite this atrociously long update time. I really hope this chapter is at least partially worth the long wait.  
> We're done with Ishval now, and are finally heading home to Resembool. Who's excited, because I am!  
> I should probably note that from here on in, Roy will be recovering from his injuries and dealing with some pretty serious PTSD. Since I'm not an expert on the matter, I will need you to bear with me and offer an expertise on issues I may get wrong about dealing with PTSD and trauma.  
> I've also gotten a lot of comments about how Hughes and Hawkeye are reacting to Roy's disappearance. Just you wait, my followers, just you wait.  
> Thank you so much for all of the inspirational comments! It honestly makes my day when I see a comment for this story despite it being so long since my last update. Life is busy, but I'l try and get the next one out ASAP.  
> Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not very good at updating at regular intervals, but I promise to try. I'm actually really excited with where this is going. I hope you guys enjoy it. If you have any reviews or questions, please comment. I'm a sucker for them; the more I get the more excited I become about writing. It's a problem. Anyway, peace out!


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